


frozen heart

by purple01_prose



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Till All Are One, Transformers: Windblade
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Courtship, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Gardens & Gardening, History, Political Alliances, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Postwar worldbuilding, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2018-11-02 17:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 267,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10949505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple01_prose/pseuds/purple01_prose
Summary: An aloof ruler with a curse. A diplomat with a magical gift that can change everything. Windblade, Princess of Caminus, comes to Cybertron in an effort to help fix their famine, and to her reluctant dismay, she finds herself caught between two political factions. Lord Starscream says he only wants to help his people and to help them heal from the past twenty-five years of war and political unrest. Across the country, the Autobots want to remove all traces of the Decepticon victory and take back what they see is theirs. Windblade is desperate to stay neutral, but neither side gives her much of a choice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the political au I've been working on. It's not done, nowhere even near it, but I'm at a good word count to start posting. Posting will be sporadic--between my job and ongoing health issues, being able to work on this is a luxury. 
> 
> So! I've borrowed different elements to make this AU. Parts of it are from _The Mists of Avalon._ Other parts of it are from the first English Civil War, between Matilda of the Holy Roman Empire and Stephen of Blois. (BTW, if you're paying attention at all to what kind of stuff is currently going down in US politics, learning about Stephen of Blois and comparing him to Donald Trump would be an interesting exercise. I'd laugh if Stephen of Blois' behavior hadn't resulted in 13 years of terrible civil war). I've borrowed from more recent Imperial Russian history as well. 
> 
> My work has always been super political in different ways, and this is pretty much the same. I have Thoughts and Questions about what postwar worldbuilding would look like in the IDW universe, and the closest we get to that is what's going on in TAAO (plus politics. I _love_ politics). 
> 
> If you have questions, feel free to ask them! Some of them might be addressed in future chapters or works, but others might not be, but you won't know until you ask. So ask! There are definitely fairy tale elements to this, and if you can spot which fairy tale it is, I will take off my (virtual) hat to you and maybe even gift you with spoilers.

**CHAPTER ONE: ARRIVALS**

 

_Late July, 1036 AP_

 

Windblade pulled her horse to a stop. Around her, her entourage stopped also, and she waited until Chromia was on her left side and Afterburner on her right. “So the rumors were true,” she commented. “Cybertron _is_ a wasteland.”

 

“I think it should be covered in snow,” Chromia said. “You know, as the land lost to time?”

 

“Cybertron is _hardly_ lost to time.” Afterburner shifted in the saddle. “They’ve changed regimes twice in the last thirteen years. Lord Starscream has been tenuously holding onto the throne of Cybertron for the last three years, and for a country rebuilding itself that’s worthy of respect.”

 

“You think it’s true that he has a chunk of ice where his heart should be?” Chromia leaned forward to pat her horse’s neck. “That he’s literally an Ice King?”

 

“He refuses to use the term ‘king’, as Cybertron was never a monarchy, but I doubt he has a chunk of ice where his heart should be,” Windblade said idly. “And I think we should watch what we say. He has ears everywhere.”

 

“Even here in this...desolation?” Chromia arched a brow.

 

“I wouldn’t put it past him.” Windblade tucked her hood more securely around her ears. “Let’s continue on. I’m hungry and I want a hot bath.”

 

“We _all_ want a hot bath,” Afterburner rumbled. “Let’s go.”

 

The main road into Iacon was hard-packed dirt, but the wind blew little puffs of dust into their faces. “The war left nothing untouched,” Chromia said in amazement as the hills appeared bare except for grey dust. “Could life even come back to this place so marked with death?” She glanced at Windblade. “What do you think?”

 

“I think,” Windblade said slowly, “if the entire country looks like this, then I don’t know if I _want_ Lord Starscream to know what I’m fully capable of. He might never let me leave.” She clicked to her horse, who cantered forward, and Afterburner and Chromia exchanged looks before catching up to her.

 

Windblade was used to traveling light, but after the request for a Camien ambassador in the Cybertronian court came through, she was suddenly gifted with a baggage train to carry her finest clothing, normally wrapped up in light silk in her rooms at home. _Normally_ , she made better time, but after three weeks on a road to what would _normally_ be a week’s journey for her, she was grumpy and unhappy with her prospective ambassadorship.

 

And she hadn’t liked everything she heard of Lord Starscream, either.

 

Iacon was apparent in the distance by being the tallest structure on the vast, empty plain. How had it survived the war? It was the tallest thing around, and could be completely encircled by an enemy siege. Strong walls didn’t mean much when the enemy could surround you. That was why the capital city of Caminus had been built into the mountains. The enemy couldn’t siege what they couldn’t get to.

 

The wind picked up as they rode up the hill. After making a face, Windblade drew her scarf over her mouth and nose, and the rest of her entourage followed suit. The dust had no life to it, and while Windblade had built up an immunity to being in places with no life, it still made her bad-tempered.

 

When they got to the gates, as Herald for the Princess of Caminus, Chromia rode forward to announce Windblade and her group. Windblade brushed some dust off the top of her saddle as Chromia and the guards exchanged words, and then the gates creaked open. Windblade straightened as the open gates showed double lines of soldiers in the grey-and-black uniforms of the so-called “Badgeless”, and Afterburner nudged his horse closer and to the front of hers.

 

The guards were a message, and Windblade shifted in the saddle. Caminus wasn’t a threat militarily to Cybertron; there was no point to demonstre military strength. Afterburner led their party through the roughly-cobbled streets, and Windblade saw how she was watched by _everyone_ \--she couldn’t see the eyes of the Badgeless, but the city inhabitants tracked her every move.

 

Iacon was in better shape than she expected, but rubble piled up in corners and the general look of the city was _grey_. The feel of the city was of a wounded giant, and she shivered in her cloak. The city needed healing, and she had a feeling she was going to be healing it. She would need to consult Solus. The last thing she wanted was to be tied to Cybertron. Her brother needed her to send him reports from the countries around Caminus; Cybertron held no political value for Caminus.

 

The palace wasn’t that much larger than the city around it, but the stone was black instead of grey. There was a tower from which two pennants flew--the moon-over-Cybertron emblem of Cybertron itself, and the red star over Cybertron as Lord Starscream’s own pennant. Lord Starscream was in residence, but that didn’t surprise her.

 

She reached out to grab Chromia’s arm. “Did we bring my flag?”

 

Normally, Chromia would carry Windblade’s flag, but since Cybertron was and continued to be hostile territory, they were not about to shout to any bandits and highwaymen in the area that the Princess of Caminus was riding through.

 

“ _Obviously_ ,” Chromia sniffed. “Don’t worry, I’ll arrange for it to be flown after you get settled in.”

 

“That wasn’t what I was asking.” Windblade looked up at the tower as they approached. “Do we want my flag to be flown?”

 

Afterburner drifted closer, his horse whuffing at Windblade’s. “You have concerns?”

 

“I’m not certain I want Lord Starscream to discover how far my power goes,” she said quietly. “The cityspeaking is a given, but as for the rest...It’s just so very _rare_.”

 

“And if your flag is flown…?”

 

“There are other diplomats who know what my powers are, because they’ve requested them. If we make it known I’m here, they might be asking if I am performing the same task.”

 

Afterburner mulled it over. “Wait and see,” he said. “You might not have an option.”

 

With a displeased huff, she acknowledged his answer. She had poor impulse control, after all. The lack of life made her hands and feet itch, and she wanted to _push_ life back into the soil. She had to hold back, at least until she found the heart of Iacon. Life meant nothing without good soil and water.

 

Inside the palace courtyard, some people in the grey and black livery came to take their horses. Afterburner growled at one of them when they went to help her down, and Windblade leapt down. The liveried groomsmen bowed as she removed her scarf and her hood to get a better look around, and Chromia hitched herself off her horse. “Just to let you know,” she told the groomsmen with a wry smile, “the princess _really_ doesn’t like to be helped off her horse.”

 

Windblade scowled at Chromia before looking to the groomsmen. “Has the Lord Starscream given any orders for our introduction?”

 

One of them cleared their throat. “The Lord Starscream has ordered baths for you and your entourage, Your Highness. He requests that you take dinner with him at half past the sixth bell of the afternoon.”

 

Windblade wiped some accrued dirt off her face. “Not myself and Captain Afterburner?” She felt a flicker of trepidation at the thought of eating alone with Lord Starscream and no chaperone, but she hid it.

 

The herald--their uniform was just a little bit brighter than the rest of the groomsmen--shook their head. “Just you, Your Highness."

 

Windblade forced a smile onto her face. “Tell the Lord Starscream I am pleased to acquiesce to his request and I will see him then.”

 

The groomsman beamed and left. Windblade turned to look back at her baggage train and sighed. “And just _where_ ,” she muttered, “am I supposed to put all of this?”

 

\--

 

Windblade adjusted the sleeves of her robe nervously. Her shawl lay draped in the curve of her elbows but she was afraid of getting the sleeves wrong. She hadn’t worn this black-red-and-blue robe since her brother’s birthday eleven months ago. She had almost forgotten how to tie it. She at least remembered how much she loved the embroidery of firebirds in flight.

 

She smiled her thanks to the silent servant who opened the door to the private dining room, and she tried to swallow her anxiety as the door clicked close behind her. The Lord Starscream was the only person in the room, if the tall figure draped in scarlet and gold staring out the window _was_ him. From the view of his back, she could see how his hair was loose, with gold braided into the curls. His dark skin gleamed in the candlelight, and from where his scarlet robe curled around his arms, she saw corded muscles and many thin, darker brown scars. He had been a warrior, and no doubt of it.

 

Then he turned around to look at her, and she forgot how to breathe.

 

Small scars dotted the skin above and below his lips, and he had one long scar that curved from under his right eye to his chin. His brown eyes were as hard as glass, and when they remained suspended in that tableau, she belatedly remembered to bow. He bowed in return, not as low, and then he said in a rasp, “It’s the scars, isn’t it?”

 

“My lord?” she tilted her head and tucked her hands together, the sleeves of her kimono hiding how she twisted her fingers.

 

“Every Camien I’ve met has skin like a child’s. Scars are abnormal to your culture, aren’t they? And here I am, a walking abnormality.” He drew closer to her, and she saw a thick, jagged line at his throat. Someone had tried to slit his throat once--that explained his voice.

 

“It is,” she cleared her throat, “unusual in Caminus to see someone who has survived so many attempts on his life. You must be very strong.”

 

“Cunning,” he told her, his lips twisting into a smirk. “Only the cunning survived Megatron’s leadership.” He gestured for her to sit, and she did so. Once she had, he tapped his glass and another door opened with a different servant. They came forward and poured wine into the glasses and then disappeared again. “So you are the princess.”

 

“I am,” she said. “Am I what you expected?”

 

“I thought you would be shorter. Are the tattoos real?”

 

She felt her forehead instinctively. The white tattoos curled from under her eyes up to her temples and down her cheeks. It was a uniquely Camien custom, homage to the lord who had founded their city with Solus Prime, and Lord Starscream wouldn’t know what it meant. “They are. I got them when I turned twenty-one.”

 

“That can’t have been long ago.”

 

She gave him a razor’s smile at the compliment. “Nearly eight years ago. And everyone thinks I would be shorter. You’re still taller than me.”

 

“I’m taller than most,” he said absently. He reached out and brushed his thumb over the marks on her skin and she held very still. “Did it hurt?”

 

She gestured to his throat. “Did that?”

 

He drew back in surprise, and to her relief, took his hand off her face. “It hurt the most out of everything else,” he said quietly, and for a moment, she felt a sharp stab of compassion for him. There was more to the wound than just the scar; something had happened to cause it.

 

Then Lord Starscream straightened and the moment was gone. “So what _is_ a cityspeaker, exactly?”

 

The doors opened and servants came forward with covered dishes. She waited until they had put forth the first course and then retreated before replying. “It means different things to different cultures,” she said as she waited for him to take the first bite. “To my people, it means the one who can find the heart of the city and listen to what it needs.”

 

From the smell of the soup in front of her, it was heavy with beet and sour cream. She disliked sour cream--cream did not do much for her, at _all_ \--but since Lord Starscream was eating it with gusto, it was only polite for her to do the same.

 

He gestured with his spoon as she sampled the broth and nearly winced at the taste. She would be vomiting later, no doubt about it. She just hoped it would wait until after the dinner--it would be highly undignified to do it in Lord Starscream’s presence. “That sounds like useless poetry.”

 

“The older a city, the harder it is to find its heart,” she said, a little stung. “But cities have one--life has a magic of its own, and when people live together, that place becomes alive too, in its own way.”

 

He lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “That seems a little ridiculous to me. Otherwise military bases would have a heart, and I never felt such a thing.”

 

“The magic...is beyond my ken,” she said helplessly. “If we could explain it, we could create it, but we can’t. All I know is what my magic tells me.” Her stomach roiled, and she held down the nausea. Traveling always unsettled her, and she doubted she would be able to enjoy anything from dinner at all, regardless of the amount of cream in it. “Do you have magic?”

 

“You couldn’t survive the war without it.” He put down his spoon, and with hidden gratitude, she copied him. She couldn’t stand any more. “But my magic was never useful in the battlefield.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“I can talk people into things,” he said. “Things they wouldn’t ordinarily do. Whenever I was captured, I could just walk out. But it’s not really an offensive gift, since I need time to do it. I couldn’t make _you_ do something.”

 

“That’s a relief,” she murmured as she sipped her wine. “Why is that?”

 

“Familiarity and sheer need,” he held up his wineglass to be refilled from one of the servants. It was starting to bother her, how quiet the servants were. “And it didn’t always work, but when it did…” he tilted his head. “It takes more than strength to survive.”

 

She knew that. She didn’t have the scars to show for it, but she _knew_ it.

 

“So what keeps you on the road?” He nodded to the servants bringing in the second course. From the scent, it was roasted pork in a rich onion gravy. She liked the gravy, but it would have been better over rice than with pork. “Doesn’t your brother need you at home?”

 

“He needs me on the road.” Thankfully, bread was also on the table, and she dipped it into the gravy. “Now that communication lines have been open between Caminus and everyone else, I’m working on establishing relationships with those countries.” It was a diplomat’s job, she thought, but apparently Lord Starscream needed someone to teach his grandmother how to churn butter.

 

“Doesn’t he miss you?”

 

“We’re siblings, not friends,” she found the words spilling out of her mouth, despite her better judgement. “We weren’t raised to like each other, merely to be useful.”

 

“Harsh,” he commented.

 

“My brother is seven years younger than me,” she said, allowing her fork to rest against the plate since Lord Starscream was done. “He’s...insecure.” She frowned. She never spoke so candidly about her brother to outsiders, and she glanced down at her meal. “Is this drugged?”

 

“Diplomats can’t be drugged.”

 

“That’s not a no.”

 

“No, you’re not drugged.” He leaned back in his seat. “What would make you believe you are?”

 

“I rarely speak so...it is not important. Are you from Iacon originally?”

 

He smirked. “No, thank Primus. Isn’t it dreary? No, I hail from Vos. It’s far to the South, a climate that suits me far more than this. It was destroyed in the war, and so I am here.”

 

The war. Stories of the Cybertronian civil war had come over the borders for the fifteen years it had been waged. The previous rulers, the Senate, had dined richly on duck, goose, and pheasant while the common Cybertronian had eaten grass to keep from starving. Eventually, the people had rebelled when too many of their children had died for want of food, and they had been led by a skilled warrior of almost mythic proportions, a gladiator from the pits of the Kaon--, “Lord Megatron brought you here to help his cause?”

“We fought here as equals,” Lord Starscream corrected, a sharp edge in his voice. “He could fight, but he couldn’t organize. I could, so I was useful. I could fight, but I got better under his tutelage. For a long time, the partnership worked.”

 

Until it didn’t. Megatron had cleaned the Autobot faction out of Iacon and set himself as the new Lord of Cybertron, and then gossip had quieted for nearly five years. It had made the world around Iacon nervous, because _nothing_ had come out of Iacon, and then gossip gushed from the city--Megatron had killed all the civic leaders, the civic leaders had deposed Megatron, Megatron had murdered his second-in-command, his third-in-command was ruling in his place….no one could make sense of what was going on. Which, of course, made everyone _more_ nervous.

 

3 years ago, Windblade and her mother had woken to the flame of Solus guttering in the temple. They had prayed and meditated the whole night long, in desperate fear of the flame going out, but by dawn it had righted itself.

 

Two days later, the news had come that Megatron was dead at Starscream’s hand, and the world had shifted on its axis. Starscream had made Cybertron stable again, even if his method of seizing power was frowned upon by the governments around him. He hadn’t cared, too busy focused on his people and rebuilding, but Caminus had been the first one to thaw, first by offering trade negotiations and then finally sending her.

 

No one knew the truth of what had happened, and Windblade desperately wanted to know, but it was not a conversation she felt comfortable starting. “And here you are.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

The next course was a salad course, and Windblade managed an internal sigh of relief. Something lighter. Then she tasted the dressing and the bottom of her stomach dropped out. Bile surged in the back of her throat and she reached for her water glass. After she drank almost half the glass, she said, “Do you have any siblings?”

 

“I have one. Two, once, but Skywarp was a casualty of the war.”

 

“My grief for yours,” she said.

 

“...thank you. In any case, my brother Thundercracker serves a similar function that you do, only he travels throughout Cybertron to send me reports.”

 

“Does he possess magic like you?”

 

Lord Starscream made a face. “He can summon storms, but he is unable to do so here.”

 

She tilted her head. “How so?”

 

He looked at her for a moment, and then he stood up and offered his hand. She took it, and he led her to the window. She looked out to the lights of the city, past the wall to the fields of dust beyond. Moonlight lit up the dust, turning it silver, and she glanced at him. “I...fail to see the point.”

 

He let go of her to gesture out the window. “The turning over from summer to autumn is usually marked by torrential rain for weeks. It invigorates the soil just in time for the unceasing blizzards that lock up Iacon for several months. But such dangers are necessary for the harvest season--it makes the soil rich. Yet for the past three years, there has been a drought out in those lands. My people have only survived because they can grow enough to live within the walls of the city.” He slammed a hand down on the sill, making her jump. “It is a curse from Primus. I know it is. And yet Primus allowed the rains and snows to fall when the Senate tortured their people and starved them to death. I would _spit_ on Primus--except that the rain will not fall.”

 

He looked at her, and his eyes pierced her. “There are rumors that where you walk, you bring life. That plants spring up in your footprints. That children are born with their carriers surviving it when you are present. Can you bring the rain?”

 

Wrongfooted, Windblade tried to rally. “I’m not--sure. I can try.”

 

His eyes blazed, and Windblade’s breath came short in her chest. “ _Try._ ”

 

\--

 

Windblade re-entered her apartments and fell to her knees. Chromia was there, immediately, with a basin and she supported Windblade while Windblade emptied her stomach contents into the basin.

 

It took a long time, or so it felt. Windblade’s eyes watered and tears ran down her cheeks, and her stomach _hurt_. She had learned in Carcer that her body did not care for cream or cream-based foods, but if the Lord Starscream was eating them without asking her for her preferences, it was only proper for her to follow his lead.

 

Finally, she was able to push away the basin--one of her assigned servants for this trip took it away, and Windblade lost interest in it from there--and Chromia had a cup of strong-tasting tea waiting for her. Windblade took it and stumbled to the windowsill, where she used the tea to clean out her mouth before taking a sip from the water pitcher. “Is there soup?” she rasped, wiping her face on her sleeve.

 

“Let’s wait until the morning, little sparrow,” Chromia told her. It was their private nickname--’little sparrow’ for Windblade, and ‘grumpy bear’ for Chromia. Chromia had been Windblade’s guardian since she was very little and Chromia only a little less so, and they had shared a childhood. Out of love and loyalty, Chromia had followed her into a tumultuous adulthood of near-permanent unofficial exile, and Windblade did her best to honor that bond. “Water and tea for now, and let’s see where you are in the morning.”

 

These spells of nausea rarely lasted past the night and only revisited a few days later in the water-closet, and as Windblade was tucked in, she mumbled, “Are we still having predawn practice?”

 

“I thought we could make it at dawn, just to suit your exhausted state, my princess,” Chromia teased over the rustling of her bedroll, and Windblade rolled her eyes.

 

“I get no respect,” she groused.

 

“I give you plenty of respect,” Chromia protested, her voice pitching high with amusement. “I’m giving you an extra hour of sleep, after all.”

 

“You could give me more respect by allowing me to sleep the morning away.”

 

“That would be bad for your character,” Chromia fussed, and Windblade grinned into her pillow. “Only the ignoble sleep late.”

 

Windblade made sure to growl incoherently into her too-soft pillow, just to hear Chromia’s whispered chuckle, and then she drifted asleep to dreams of wind and fire, the need to clean and purify Iacon with pure destruction, if need be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory time! Annnnnnnd Starscream's POV. I feel like everyone has that one villain (that they are like 'yep, definitely a villain') that they're like SHIT THEY THINK LIKE ME annnnnnnnnnd Starscream is that for me. The decisions he made in TAAO #9? Decisions _I_ would have made. It's this weird kinship.
> 
> I love all the kudos, but I love to hear your comments too! Especially since the plot is, erm, _thickening_. It makes my humdrum work seem less boring. (Trust me, it's boring.)

**CHAPTER TWO: AFFRONTATIONS**

Starscream disliked waking up most mornings. His situation in Iacon hadn’t changed yet, and it was a relief to finally turn in at the end of the night, just to get a break from it. This morning, he was rudely awoken by a shaft of dawning sunlight cutting through his curtains and striking him firmly in the eyes. Muttering invective on the servants who tended his chambers and had deliberately left the gap, he stomped to the window to pull the curtains shut, but as he glanced down, he saw some ladies in the courtyard below practicing with weapons he didn’t recognize.

Curiosity piqued--Skywarp had said that was his weakness, once--Starscream thrust aside the curtains and opened the glass windows. He noted to himself to tell his servants to clean the windows, as the grime was getting significant. He leaned over the windowsill and saw that it was the Princess Windblade’s entourage of ladies, practicing with some kind of pole-arm, and there was the Princess herself, facing off against a slightly taller warrior with only a fan and the warrior possessing a halberd. 

With rapt attention, he watched the Princess dance around the thrusts of the halberd and dart in to smack the other warrior’s knuckles with the flat of the fan. Even from his window, two stories above, he heard the slap of iron-on-iron, and he winced as the warrior shook their hand before taking the offensive.

The Princess stepped back once, twice, and then as the halberd tip came perilously close to her face, she tucked her fan into her belt and caught the shaft of the halberd between her hands. Starscream could almost see her strain to use her opponent’s momentum against them, but it was clearly a trick her opponent was used to, because her opponent reached out to hook their foot around the Princess’ ankle and pulled, and the Princess hit the ground. 

That appeared to signal the end of the session, and the warrior put down the halberd to help the Princess stand up. They both examined the warrior’s knuckles from out under the glove, and the Princess appeared to be apologizing--cracked knuckles, perhaps?--and the warrior waved her off before grabbing their halberd and ambling off. The Princess spoke with the rest of her ladies, about four of them, and dismissed them to follow the warrior.

Then she looked up at Starscream. “Were you entertained, my lord?”

He shrugged. “I’d like to see what you could do with a real weapon, not a fan, before I would call it ‘entertainment.’”

She retrieved the fan and snapped it open, and the sunlight caught on the metal edges of each fan spoke. “It  _ is _ a real weapon, my lord.”

“So I am told.” He leaned further out. “Can you use anything else?”

He caught her shrug. “I am passable with the naginata, and I’ve been told I’m a fair hand with a sword. The shukusen is my primary weapon, however.”

“Harder to spot that it is a weapon,” he said with approval. “We’ll have to spar sometime. I’m a fair hand with the sword myself.”

She bowed. “I look forward to it. May I take my leave?”

She’s probably more royal than I am, and she’s begging  _ my _ leave. Sometimes, Starscream loved being Lord of Cybertron. “Of course, Your Highness.”

She tucked her fan--what did she call it? Shukusen?--back into her belt and left the courtyard, and Starscream went in search of breakfast. If he had to be up, he might as well enjoy it.

Breakfast these days always followed the same pattern--eggs with cheese and some blinis. At least the blinis were stuffed with jam instead of sour cream. He still couldn’t understand the northern Cybertronian obsession with sour cream. He had given the Princess traditional dishes the previous night because his chef had wanted to wow her, but judging from the slight tinge of green to her features all night long, he didn’t think the right impression had been made. He didn’t know what made up typical Camien fare, but he suspected cream hardly featured.

The idea made him wistful.

Rattrap got him the latest agricultural and economic reports to peruse as he ate his breakfast, and he noted that there were few changes from the previous day, week, and month. The agricultural return was holding steady at ‘keeping his people fed’ but not at ‘possible trade numbers’. The economic report was the typical ‘everyone was poor so there were no class tensions’. His people were surviving on the water drawn from the underground springs, but that water was replenished by the annual rains, the ones that were failing to fall.

He put the reports aside a tad mournfully. When he had taken power, the people themselves had chosen him because they were sick of Megatron’s wild mood swings and his tendency to behead anyone who pissed him off--he had drawn and quartered anyone who disappointed him.

And now he was letting them down. Every day it didn’t rain was another day that chipped away at his power. He had only stayed in power this long because things were stable and there weren’t any other candidates, but if something happened to upset that fragile balance, his head would be the next to decorate the city gates.

Starscream had fought long and hard to be where he was. No one, not even their god, was going to take it away from him.

He had finished up breakfast and was strolling to his first meeting of the day when he was waylaid by Scoop. “You had best come, my lord,” the gardener panted. “It’s those damned Camiens!”

Starscream picked up his pace to match the gardener, and they exited the main palace to head toward what  _ had _ been the Senate Hall before his gardeners took it over on his orders to grow enough food for the palace to survive. It was one of his better dictates, he congratulated himself. The Senate Hall was a large one-room building with plenty of windows. Most of the glass had been broken over the course of the war, but what had been left had been carefully saved. Bees still flew, thank Vos, and the empty windows allowed for them to visit at their leisure. Starscream had been pondering the merits of expanding his gardeners into beekeeping, but hadn’t had the time to fully explore the idea yet.

Scoop led him away from the former Senate Hall to the adjoining building where the Senate offices had been. They were miserable cubbyholes, and Starscream hadn’t decided what to do with it yet.

The Camiens had, apparently.

Princess Windblade, dressed for honest labor in dark robes tucked into tall boots, directed her full entourage in dismantling the pisspoor wooden walls. Two of her people were taking the walls out into the center of the courtyard while the rest merrily destroyed what remained. Shafts of sunlight lit up the growing space, and Starscream realized that once the walls were gone, it would be an atrium on par with the original Senate hall.

He cleared his throat. “My lady princess.”

“Oh, my lord!” Princess Windblade turned back to her people and instructed them to continue, before she jogged over to him. Her hair had been tucked up in intricate loops the night before, but now it was braided and pinned to her head. “Good morning,” she said brightly. “We’re getting started.”

“Started on what, Your Highness?” Scoop was nearly shuddering next to him, and Starscream wished he wouldn’t.

“On trying, my lord! I need space to conduct my experiments, and from what your head gardener said, this place has the best sunlight in the palace, but I was loath to ask your gardeners to remove themselves from a place that has worked so well for them. I asked if there was any other space currently not in use, and I was informed of this building.” One wave of her hand was enough to sum up the activity going on behind them. “It will suit my purposes nicely.”

Starscream badly wished to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You failed to ask my permission, Your Highness. What if I had plans for it?”

“Oh no,” she said, her eyes very wide. “Your head gardener--Scoop, yes?--was most explicit about the lack of plans for it. Don’t worry, my lord, by the time we’re done you’ll hardly recognize it, and I will have space to work the magic I need. Which reminds me--are there any plant witches that can be spared?”

“Scoop, you’re dismissed.” The seething gardener returned to his work, and Starscream focused on Windblade. “My lady princess, I understand that you’re used to working freely, but here, if you wish to use my property, you should ask for my permission first.”

“My understanding was that the permission was implicit, given the necessity of what you have asked me to achieve,” she said. “My apologies for my lack of tact, but I wanted to get started as quickly as possible, since winter is due to set in in a few months and I wanted to have soil ready to go.”

Part of being Lord of Cybertron was learning how to let certain things go. He didn’t like it, and disliked her for ignoring his authority, but she had a point, Primus rot her. She would need reminding that though he required her magic--of which he was still not entirely clear  _ what _ it was--he was still Lord and master of Cybertron, and she a mere ambassador, there on sufferance. “Why the plant witches?” he asked. 

She tilted her head. “If the issue is the lack of life in the soil, there are plants that can return necessary nutrients. I can get them to start growing, but I can’t get them to hasten their growing cycles. Plant witches can.”

“You really think it could be that simple?” he inquired doubtfully.

“I’m not certain,” she told him, “and it wouldn’t be simple, but it is a place to start. If that is not the problem, there are other things I can try, but it’s a test case in order to better refine my approach.”

Starscream approved of logic and precision. “Very well. I will see who I can send you.”

She stopped him from departing by placing a hand on his arm. “I do apologize for my lack of foresight,” she said. “Next time, I will be sure to involve you in the decision-making.”

“I want to be kept updated on whatever progress or not you make.”

She inclined her head. “Of course, my lord.”

He left her to her work to meet with his Department of Intelligence. Once all due deferences were made to excuse his tardiness, they turned their attention to domestic and external sources of intelligence. General dissent and discontent were the results of domestic intelligence--not a surprise--but Starscream experienced some relief when Ravage reported that the Autobots were still scrambling to find leadership after the death of Optimus Prime. 

A coup, that. Despite Autobot gossip, Starscream had nothing to do with it, but he was allowing it to exist. Two factions had emerged after Prime’s death a year ago, and for a bit, it had appeared that one faction, Prowl and his warhawks, might prevail over the remaining Autobot population, something that would be both an annoyance and a help (nothing united a disparate people like a common enemy), but the other faction, Bumblebee’s, was gaining ground. The Autobots were as tired of war as Starscream’s former faction, the Decepticons, were, and they just wanted some peace.

Peace, Starscream could deal with. If he could even arrange for one of Prowl’s own people to stab him in the back--literally--Starscream might be able to talk Bumblebee into coming back into the fold. Under him, of course, he wasn’t stupid, but Bumblebee was a bit more intelligent than Rattrap and would have better advice. If he was a bit more sarcastic about it, Starscream would accept it.

“Hook,” Starscream called as the meeting broke up. Technically speaking, the surgeon wasn’t officially in the Department of Intelligence, but his patients said a lot of interesting things when under the knife. It wasn’t technically torture, but it got Starscream the information he needed and he was willing to look the other way as to how it was gotten. “Have a moment?”

“It’s not as though I put off a lifesaving treatment to attend this mockery,” Hook told him tartly.

“Excellent! I knew you would have time for your lord.” He led the other man out into his private office. “I need a plant witch.”

“You can’t have mine,” Hook said promptly. “I need her for blending medicines.”

“Am I  _ asking _ for her? No, I’m asking for  _ a _ plant witch to work with the Princess of Caminus on a little project she’s working on for me.”

Hook stroked his beard. “What’s the Princess of Caminus needing a plant witch for?”

“She’s running some experiments and requires one. Can you give me some names?” Starscream tapped his foot once to warn Hook.

Hook gave in. “There’s a good one I know,” he said begrudgingly. “I’ll send him over. His masters don’t need him that much.”

“You’d clear him to work in my palace?” Starscream arched a brow.

Hook shrugged. “He’s been working with the city wheat supply for the last three years. If he was crooked, we’d know by now.”

Starscream didn’t fully accept that logic, but he would have Ravage investigate the witch more thoroughly later on. Just to be sure all his bases were covered. “Send him to Scoop. The Princess needs him as quickly as possible.”

“I’ll be sure to pass the message along.” Hook tucked his hands in his robe pockets. “May I leave now, Your Lordship?”

“Just for that, I’ll rescind your invitation to the dinner where you can meet the Princess,” Starscream said amiably. “Go save that miserable life.”

“Make sure the city doesn’t hear you say that,” Hook warned. He saluted Starscream with two fingers and walked off, and Starscream watched him for a moment. Both of them had reason to dislike the people--Hook because the city population was dumb enough to get their fool heads kicked in, Starscream because the city could turn on anyone, given a sliver of a reason. 

An eventful morning, he reflected, did not mean an eventful afternoon, and it was time for his weekly economics meeting. Those were always dull as dirt.

\--

That night, he dined with Afterburner with food more like his home cuisine. He was a little startled to find that the gruff older man was a pleasant dining companion, and he made sure to keep their wine glasses filled. Starscream’s was well-watered, a habit left over from being Megatron’s second-in-command, but he made sure Afterburner’s was not.

“It was a long journey,” Afterburner said cheerfully as noodles cooked in peanut sauce with vegetables were placed in front of them. “I’ve traveled with the Princess for a long time over many different places, but I’ve never seen her so weary as when we were traveling through your great plains. I think it had to do with the lack of life in the plains.”

“Oh?” Starscream swirled his fork in his noodles. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well,” Afterburner drained his glass and helped himself to the noodles with gusto. “The plains are dead, my lord. Pure and simple. It’ll take a miracle to bring them back--or Windblade. I’ve seen her restore the dead.”

“Is that her magic, then?” Starscream asked casually, gesturing for their glasses to be refilled. “Necromancy?”

“Solus, no. That girl’s got more life to her than the Spring of Power,” Afterburner snorted. 

The Spring of Power...yes, Starscream knew it. It was the old name for Vector Sigma, where legend told of where Primus breathed life into his Primes and gave life into Cybertron. “So she’s a feisty one, eh?”

Afterburner gave him a strange look. “In her own way.” He sipped his wine. “She’s been hard at work all day today.” 

“I should hope so,” Starscream grumbled. “Taking control of one of my palace buildings without my permission.”

“She does that,” Afterburner chuckled. “She can’t stand to see a situation stand if she can do something to help it along. There are worse things than impulsive compassion.”

“Is that what you call it?” Starscream eyed him. “How long have you known her?”

“Oh, since before she earned her marks,” Afterburner told him. “It was known she was a cityspeaker since she was a small child, and before she could travel anywhere, she had to be trained by the Temple priestesses to their satisfaction. Her brother, Hot Shot, was groomed as the heir, and her mother realized that Windblade’s abilities would make her a valuable diplomat. However, it is not our way to send an untried diplomat alone, and so she and I got to know each other. Then, after she was no longer untried, we had gotten to like traveling together, so here we are.” 

“Do you both intend to wander until you die?” Starscream sipped his wine.

Afterburner shifted uncomfortably. “I have a partner and two children back in Caminus, so at some point I will retire. As for her...I’m not certain if she’ll ever stop traveling. She feels others’ needs too much.”

“What do you mean?”

“Windblade does best with a project, something to catch her up and make her busy. When she finishes one, she looks for another. Caminus is lacking in projects, and most other countries we visit have quickly-solved ones. She doesn’t like to be bored, and remaining in one place would make her so.”

Starscream tapped his chin. “Fascinating. Is that why she lunges into things without thinking?”

“As far as I’m aware, you asked her to take on a project and she didn’t see any point in waiting, not when the need is so great.” Afterburner shrugged. “I talked to her, she’ll ask for permission from here on out. Most governments are so grateful to have her there that they overlook her lack of tact.”

“I thank you.” Their course was removed for a salad, several chopped vegetables tossed in a ginger sauce. “What are your impressions of what Iacon needs?”

Afterburner squinted at him. “Off the record, my lord?”

“Of course.” Starscream gestured expansively to him as they dug into their salad.

“I want to know where you’re getting your water from,” Afterburner said bluntly. “Cisterns and wells can get poisoned, but that hasn’t happened. If it hasn’t rained, where’s the water?”

“Underground springs,” Starscream told him. “They come up in every tier. It was a struggle to ensure equal access to all people--,” and sometimes he would restrict access if someone had gotten too out of hand, “but I learned how to keep water from being poisoned during the war, as did most of the city’s veterans. It’s death if you’re caught poisoning a water supply--and I’ve had to apply it a few times over the last three years.”

“Water is sacred,” Afterburner mused. “And your food sources?”

“Most free space in the palace and the city has been turned into food production,” Starscream listed, “including three city greenhouses and several gardens. That’s enough to feed most. There are communal gardens for common grains, and then each household has its own plot to grow enough food for its family. It’s been difficult, I won’t lie, but we are managing. The land you traveled through en route to Iacon used to be large fields of grain, with vegetable gardens and orchards of every kind. It was enough for Iacon to be the strongest of all the Cybertronian city-states. Now my people can only feed themselves. It doesn’t help us regain economic stability.”

Afterburner nodded slowly. “Windblade can only do so much for you,” he said. “She can’t make gold come up out of nowhere. She might be able to return those fields to what they were, but she can’t cause an economic boom. I hope that you don’t possess that expectation.”

“At this point, turning bad soil into good and bringing back the rain is all I want from her,” Starscream said tiredly. “If she can accomplish that for me and my people, I see no reason why Cybertron and Caminus can’t have an amicable relationship.”

The unsaid,  _ what if she  _ can’t _ do that _ , hung in the air between them. Afterburner broke the silence. “I don’t see why the Mistress of Flame wouldn’t accept that. Now, tell me more about this rain problem. Why won’t it rain?”

There was no way Starscream was going to tell the  _ real _ reason. He still wasn’t sure he accepted it himself, but as every season passed without the sky darkening, he did not have much of a choice. “We appear to have lost Primus’ favor. I’m not exactly certain when the beginning was, but I know the end.”

The thing about Camiens, Starscream reflected, was that their defining trait was religious devotion, and Afterburner did not disappoint. His lips thinned. “Have you attempted--?”

“Most priests are either dead or gone,” Starscream cut across. “I understand what you’re asking, but just about everything I can think of hasn’t worked--except for the Princess Windblade, apparently.”

Afterburner looked down at his napkin. “I see,” he said. “I will do everything I can to help her succeed.”

Starscream allowed his lips to twist into a bitter smile. “Thank you.”

\--

Out of boredom, Starscream chose to take a walk after his dinner ended. It was good for him to see his palace--the servants were more careful with what they said, too, if he happened upon them unexpectedly. 

He ended up on the parapets, staring out into the city. Little gold flickers showed which of his citizens were still awake, and he rested his leg on one of the crenellations and felt the wind blow through his hair and over his scalp. 

So many people died in the war. Those that survived were here in his city, and they had chosen  _ him _ to lead in the wake of Megatron’s...implosion. In choosing him, he had made the city and its inhabitants his. While it and they were his, he would protect it like he would protect himself.

It wasn’t love. It was merely possession.

After he drank his fill of the view of the city skyline, he turned to leave but was accosted by the Princess, who nearly fell down the stairs in her flinch. He caught her wrist and hauled her up to the parapets, and she shuffled her feet and didn’t meet his eyes. “My apologies, my lord, I didn’t mean to--.”

“I know.” He surveyed her from her loose braids (still pinned around her head) to her gauzy deep-blue robe and her slippers. “Couldn’t sleep?”

She shook her head. “I’m trying to solve this problem, but there’s no precedent.” Her Cybertronian was quick and nearly accentless, but in her clear upset he could hear how foreign she was. “I wonder if perhaps the ground became unsanctified due to the dead, but that has only happened under very specific circumstances--mass graves and the like--and for this, on the scale that it is, I just…” she shook her head. “I’m sorry. You came up here to get  _ away _ from your worries, and I am merely adding to them.”

He couldn’t quite figure her out. Was she actually polite, or was she acting polite in an effort to gauge him? While he couldn’t figure her out, he didn’t trust her. “I assume you came up here for the same purpose?”

“The capital city of Caminus is in the mountains,” she murmured, “I’m used to higher elevations than this.”

He frowned. From what Afterburner had said, she had not spent much time in Caminus, but he let it go. “Vos was a valley surrounded by plateaus,” he said. “It was strange, how the plateaus made Vos’ agriculture successful, but my city could thrive on its own just fine.” Around the plateaus, of course, were the warm waters of the Southern Stellar Ocean, but she didn’t need to know that.

She glanced at him. “Caminus has a tiered agricultural system,” she replied. “We also practice crop rotation. In the capital itself, we use greenhouses to keep the city fed through the bitter winters. I can be useful there, but not for long. It makes me feel,” she clicked her tongue, “overwhelmed to be in there. Like I have too many things to do but not enough time to do them.”

He huffed a laugh. He still didn’t know what exactly her magic was, but if it had something to do with jumpstarting the growing process, he could understand why she might feel overwhelmed in a greenhouse. “So you’re used to nonconventional methods of feeding a large population.”

She nodded. “Did you grow things in Vos? You personally, I mean?”

“No. I studied the stars. I tried, once. I had a friend who could make anything grow, and I was jealous, but everything I tried to grow died. He told me that happened sometimes, and not to worry.”

“The stars,” she mused. “We track growing seasons by the stars.” She pointed to a constellation. “That’s the goat. The goat eats everything, so it means it’s getting to be time for the harvest.”

“The goat,” he said, flatly. “Really.”

She turned to look at him, the moonlight making her eyes glimmer--or perhaps that was amusement. “We’re not a romantic people, Camiens. Were Vosians?”

Skyfire had been. His romanticism had gotten him killed. He shook himself free of the memories. “Some were. I was more interested in what  _ made _ the stars than giving their shapes names.”

“I can understand that.” She rested her arms on a crenellation. “When I wasn’t in the Temple for lessons, I liked having dirt under my nails and working on making things grow. I still do, but there’s less time for that.” She brightened. “Is it a Cybertronian custom to have flower gardens?”

“They don’t feed people,” he pointed out.

“Do you keep bees?”

“Bees?”

“Yes. Bees are  _ wonderful _ . They make sure flowering vegetables and fruits actually grow their, well, fruits, and then honey is incredibly useful, both for cooking and medicinal uses. Does Iacon have an apiary? That would useful for what we’re doing.”

“There...might be,” he conceded. “I’m not certain. Bees are not my concern.” It would help to have her believe that, anyway.

She turned away from him with a flounce of her robe. “Well, they should be. And bees have a magic of their own. That might help.”

“I will find out for you,” he told her. “If you think it will help.”

She smiled at him. “It just might.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a [Tumblr](https://inkfic.tumblr.com/) and I've got the working images of Starscream and Windblade for this particular fic up there. I'll post odd bits there (probably), but it's my writing Tumblr, not my personal one. 
> 
> Next time: Hellllloooooooo Metroplex!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for violence in this one. 
> 
> I know that canon-wise, Windblade had all sorts of modifications to be able to work with Titans, but I have to imagine that even with all those safeguards, it has to be overwhelming to really feel and _know_ how vast and old the Titans are in comparison to you. Canon!Metroplex traveled a lot during the bulk of the war, but even the flashbacks of when he was on Cybertron makes me think that he did the best he could to protect his people, and I'm guessing there's a certain amount of transference as a result of the merge. I wonder if part of the reason Windblade sees Iacon as home now and loves it as such is because she felt Metroplex's love for it. So that's a concept I'm playing with here.

**CHAPTER 3: INTRODUCTIONS**

 

_Early August, 1035 AP_

“I thought we’d given up missions by night in Carcer, when that mission nearly got your head taken off at the neck by an overzealous guard,” Chromia hissed as Windblade slipped from shadow to shadow on one of Iacon’s lesser streets.

“You’re telling me you want this one _public?_ ” Windblade looked over her shoulder at Chromia in disbelief.

“I’m just saying,” Chromia bit her tongue on a curse when she tripped over a loose cobblestone and nearly fell, but she righted herself before her face could take the brunt of it, “that we could do this in _moonlight_.”

Windblade blew a raspberry at Chromia. “We’ll survive. Once we find the right turn, I’ll even let you light our way.”

Chromia grumbled incoherently as they moved deeper into the city. Windblade was on the trail of the city’s heart, and she was insensible to anything else, even Chromia’s concern over their safety. Chromia couldn’t see the trail Windblade was following, but she had learned to trust Windblade’s judgement.

Windblade made a small noise of triumph and darted into an alley. Chromia felt for her tanto as she ran after her princess, and when she nearly hit Windblade in the back in the dark, she cursed and lit up a small blue light over her shoulder. “Thanks,” Windblade said at her most distracted. “I think this is it!”

Chromia looked the wall up and down. “Really.”

Windblade flapped a hand at her and concentrated. After a moment, she placed her right hand against the wall. The edges of the wall glowed red, and then the wall disappeared. Chromia stared--most cities already had an open door, merely hidden to unknowing eyes. She had never seen a city guard its heart with a _wall_. It made her wonder just what happened in the city to make the city guard itself so completely.

Windblade scrambled through the new doorway, and Chromia followed after. Behind them, the wall sealed up again, and the only light came from Chromia’s spell. They descended through seemingly endless stairs, until even Chromia’s stamina was tested. Windblade was breathing hard, but Chromia guessed that Windblade wasn’t even aware of the noise she was making. She was on the trail of something greater than herself.

The stairs became circular, and Chromia glanced down into the spiral in an effort to see where the stairs would end, but there was nothing but endless darkness. Windblade trailed her hand against the wall, but there was no red flickers that had marked the door up above.

When the end came, it was abrupt. Windblade stopped, and Chromia almost ran into her before righting herself. They faced a large underground cavern, where the top of the cavern reflected the dark water of the lake below. At the very center of the lake stood a slender rock formation, and underneath it, in the water, blue and red lights flickered. Chromia backtracked two steps upward as Windblade pulled off her overcoat, slippers, and stockings. Underneath it, she wore an undyed yukata, and out of her coat pocket, she drew out the small jar of water taken from the primary spring of Caminus.

Chromia’s complaints about the stairs and the cool temperature of the underground cavern dried up as Windblade prepared for the ritual of introduction. First, she had to place her hands and extend her magic through the water of the spring, to introduce herself to the city. Once that was done, Windblade unlatched the jar and poured in the water of Caminus. It told the city where she came from and what role she had in Caminus, that she was trusted to carry such holy water. Finally, she placed her hands in the water again, and awaited a sign that she was welcome.

Chromia had seen her perform the ritual several times, but she had never seen a city respond the way this one did: the entire lake flared with blue and gold lights, and the rock outcropping in the center of the spring glowed. Windblade rose, and in front of Chromia’s astonished eyes, she walked on the water to the very center of the spring.

Windblade felt the water of the spring pressing against her bare feet, a strange sensation almost like walking on gelatin. As she drew closer to the rock, she could feel heat emanating from where the city’s heart resided. It was a comforting warmth, like the way Afterburner would drape a blanket over her shoulders if he caught her shivering, and she hesitated before placing her palms against the stone. She would not deny it--the first interaction with a city always frightened her. It was such an act of vulnerability on both her and the city’s part, and a city like Iacon would have so many bad memories, from the war and its aftermath. She braced herself, and let down her barriers.

Emotions slammed into her--compassion, anger, panic, and fear. She had to allow the first wave to overwhelm her; cities were so used to taking care of their people that the first hint of care for them made them unload everything upon a cityspeaker. Tears trailed down her face as the city sorted through its-- _his_ , his name was Metroplex--immediate reactions to her and the care she offered, and then, unusually, Metroplex drew his presence back until she could bear it.

“What do you need?” she whispered in the ancient language of the Primes. “What can I offer you?”

Metroplex hesitated, but when she indicated to him that she was willing and receptive, he allowed her to see his concern for his people. He knew of the lack of rain, and it was his doing that springs were so available aboveground. He also knew that it was the doing of Primus, but instead of blaming Starscream, as she expected, he merely said, _The dead must stay so,_ and wouldn’t tell her anything else about what was going on.

“Will you help me?” she begged. “I wish to save this city and you, but I need your help.”

Metroplex considered it, and then he told her he had a condition. _Bring me that which contains a life, once awoken, will prove to be immortal. It can be found where life slumbers, awaiting the waking touch._

Windblade nodded. She moved to pull her hands away, but the rock underneath her hands warmed, and she joined her magic to the magic thrumming through the stone. The glow sharpened until a beam of white light erupted from the tip of the rock and went straight up, through the cavern roof. Windblade felt the beam of light race through the layers of stone and loam until it was free, and in a flair of joy--Metroplex had a people again that knew he existed--the light danced up into the starlit sky. Metroplex hadn’t felt the sky since before the war, when he had sunk himself deep under the city in protest against the Senate, but he allowed himself to delight in the sky above again. She felt his joy, and for a moment, her worries were buoyed in a wave of ecstasy.

The beam of light remained above the city as Windblade quietly removed herself. She walked back across the spring’s surface to Chromia’s side, and she dressed in the silence. Chromia handed her her coat, and Windblade slipped the empty jar back into her pocket.

This time, the stairs were not nearly so long, and they deposited the two women back in the palace courtyard. A door appeared in the wall, and Windblade nodded to it to Chromia. Metroplex would allow them to return.

They escaped back into the palace, and as Windblade re-entered her chambers, she spied the light stabbing into the sky from her chamber windows. She shivered. She had done something very noisy, and would have to answer for it.

\--

Windblade was awoken that morning not by Chromia’s gentle prodding to get to predawn practice, but by a shrieking dervish in her sitting room that resolved itself into the Lord Starscream, utterly beside himself. She departed her bedroom after throwing on a robe, and she restored order to her sitting room by rapping her shukusen on the table, hard. Her ladies stopped arguing, and at her sharp look, quickly departed the room. Afterburner leaned against the wall, his eyes dark and his sword hilt in his hand, and Windblade gestured to Lord Starscream. “Would you join us for breakfast, my lord?”

Lord Starscream opened his mouth--she guessed to yell--but then he snapped his mouth closed and considered her. “That would be acceptable,” he said, begrudgingly. “But I have a bone to pick with you, Princess.”

“I understand,” she said politely, though she didn’t. “Would Your Grace allow me to dress?”

Lord Starscream’s eyes widened, and for the first time, he looked her up and down. Afterburner straightened, a growl in his throat, and then Lord Starscream turned around with flapped hands. “Fine, fine.”

Chromia, who had been ready to take Lord Starscream’s head off at the neck had Windblade given her the signal, followed Windblade back into her bedroom. Windblade shook her head at Chromia when her guard would have discussed what had just happened, and in silence, Chromia assisted Windblade to pull on her day robes. Windblade didn’t care for all of the fussy fanciness, since she spent so much time working and gardening, but it wouldn’t hurt to remind Lord Starscream that she was a Princess of Caminus, not one of his people to be ordered around.

When she returned to her sitting room, her hair pulled up in a hasty mockery of her usual hairstyle, Lord Starscream offered his arm to her. She took it, as prim as she could, and he led her to the dining room that she had seen on her first night there. Afterburner and Chromia followed after, and for the first time, it occurred to her that Lord Starscream had no entourage. The other lords she had met always had an aide or valet accompany them, even on their most private meetings, but Lord Starscream appeared to disdain such attentions. In that, they shared a common sentiment; while Windblade had her ladies as custom dictated, she preferred the company of Chromia alone.

Breakfast was a simple meal of pancakes stuffed with berries and accompanied with scrambled eggs, a far cry from the heavy fare she had come to expect. She drank tea while the men drank juice, and tension simmered from the Lord Starscream. For all of his hostility, it was improper to scold her before they finished eating, and if it was about what she expected, then Afterburner would speak in her defense.

She quelled her instinctive stomach flutterings after putting down her fork. She folded her hands on the yellow tablecloth and turned to Lord Starscream. “Now, my lord. What can I explain for you?”

Starscream had been waiting for just such an opportunity. “Allow me to give you a list. First, why did you wander off in the middle of the night last night? Second, what have you done to cause that light in the sky? Third, what do you propose to do about it?”

“All questions can be answered, my lord,” she replied. “To begin--last night, I sought the heart of Iacon. It was best to do it at night, when I would not be observed.”

“Except you _were_ ,” Starscream said as waspish as he dared, judging from Afterburner’s look. “By my people. You might have been seen by others!”

“I have reason to believe the original location of the entryway to the city’s heart has moved,” she said. “In any case, it was crucial not to be observed in my initial reconnaissance. The city’s heart is Metroplex, and he is as concerned as you are for your people.”

Starscream tapped the table impatiently. “ _How_ did you discover this?”

“There is a ritual,” Windblade said vaguely. “After Metroplex accepted my presence, he allowed me to communicate with him. The light that you see in the sky is his…” she tried to find the right words. “His--his _return._ He used to be above ground, where he could easily be found and petitioned. He brought himself underground as a protest against the Senate, and when I was able to communicate with him and, um, express my--our--intent, he allowed the light to show his approval.”

“Will he move back above ground?” Starscream demanded. It would be a clear sign of approval of his regime if Metroplex returned to where the town citizens could petition him.

Windblade shrugged. “He has made a request of me before he will do anything else. There is something I must find and bring to him. What he does after that is entirely up to him--I only communicate and translate for him, not make his decisions for him.”

“That is _not good enough._ ” Starscream took a deep breath to regain his composure. She was providing a needed service, he could not lose his temper with the chit the way he wanted to. “If you solve the problem the way that I have--requested, _we_ will need Metroplex to be ready and visible for the people of Iacon.”

“I do not disagree,” Windblade told him, stifling her own temper. He had no idea how cities worked, but she couldn’t be angry with him for that. Most rulers didn’t know how their cities worked. “But I still have no control over what actions he chooses. Once I fulfill his request, I will be able to ask him, but until I can do that, I hold no standing beyond the initial ritual.”

Lord Starscream frowned. “Why request anything of you at all?”

Windblade glanced at Afterburner, who nodded to her once. “Because,” she said, “he needs to know that _I_ am legitimate. There are people who would use a city’s inherent magic to benefit themselves. I am not one of those, but he doesn’t know that. So I am given a test, and I will pass it.”

Lord Starscream pursed his lips. “You put a great deal of stock in your ability to do so.”

She met his gaze without flinching. “I need his help to solve the task you have put before me. I have no other choice.”

Lord Starscream leaned back as he surveyed her. “You should have alerted me before you went to find him. I should have been there.”

No, she wanted to snap, you shouldn’t have been. My intent was not political; yours is. He would have seen that.

To hide her thoughts, she bowed her head. “I apologize for not having alerted you, my lord. I will be pleased to introduce you once I have fulfilled his request.”

“When will the light disappear?” he asked abruptly.

“I am not certain,” she confessed. “I suspect it will be after I do what he wishes.”

Lord Starscream stood up. “Then get to it.” He left the room, and Windblade looked across the table to Afterburner.

“He’ll calm down,” he told her. “It was a shock. What happened to keeping _me_ updated?”

“It happened last night!” Windblade’s patience broke. “Literally last night! And I was tired because the ritual _always_ makes me tired so forgive me for allowing my exhaustion to take its course and I would have _told_ you this morning had I not been so rudely awoken by his Lordship and I’m really not in the mood to be scolded right now!” Her voice broke, and Afterburner came around the table to wrap her up in a hug.

“Little one,” Afterburner rumbled, “I wasn’t scolding you.”

Windblade wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Transference residue. I apologize.”

Afterburner squeezed her shoulder and then let her go. “Get ready to work,” he advised. “You’ve a lot of it.”

She bowed, and then found the exit.

\--

Chromia watched as Windblade settled into a comfortable sitting position, her quartz scrying crystal resting on the dirt before her. She leaned on the pole of her halberd, well within the circle of protection she had drawn, and Windblade picked up the scrying crystal and rested it between her palms. As she closed her eyes, Chromia felt the air ripple with Windblade’s magic before it flickered into existence in the crystal. Windblade’s magic didn’t have a color like other magics, but when she scryed, it appeared as a soft crimson light. Chromia never saw anything in the scrying crystal, but her power was rooted in strength and protection, not in seeing.

It was difficult to fully describe Windblade’s power, so Chromia never tried. It kept her and the rest of Windblade’s ladies from gossiping about what Windblade was engaging in, if they had to spend too much time explaining _how_ Windblade could do it instead of _what_ Windblade was doing.

Windblade could influence life itself and summon it, and she could use similar skills that plant witches and healers were known for, but unlike those others, her power had limits. She could restore life to a dead limb, but she could not heal the damage. She could grow plants, but not out of season. Her power was broad, but in its application was narrow.

One of the more mundane side-effects was that Windblade could sense all life, even dormant life. Most of the time, she deliberately kept that aspect mute--it would be too overwhelming to sense _all_ the life around her, but with the right tools, she could focus it.

“What are you looking for?” Chromia kept her voice soft.

“Something Metroplex said,” Windblade murmured, “that if I find something that contains life and wake it up, it will be immortal. What does that sound like to you?”

Chromia racked her brains. “The undead?” she ventured after a moment. “A decaying body creates life within it, and if you wake it up, you can’t quite kill it, can you?”

Windblade shook her head, the crimson light contained within the crystal becoming deeper. “He also said the dead are meant to stay so.”

“Fine,” Chromia shrugged. “What do you think?”

“It has to be something that life can be dormant in but still be able to wake up, no matter how long it’s been there,” Windblade mused. “But, moreover, a life that will be immortal.”

“Nothing lives forever,” Chromia said.

“But that’s not the meaning of immortal, is it? Immortal means it won’t die--.”

“Which is what I just said.”

“It won’t die,” Windblade continued, ignoring Chromia, “unless it is killed.”

Chromia nearly threw her hands up in frustration, but she remembered the circle of protection at the last minute and spared her hands a nasty shock. “What’s the difference?”

“A lot,” Windblade said. “Which makes me think…” She leaned over the crystal and the light flared. Windblade stared intently into it for such a long time that Chromia began to think she had fallen asleep.

“I _thought_ so,” Windblade breathed a while later. “For how stable the Cybertronian economy was, there had to be--can you wipe out the circle?”

“What did you find?”

“I need to tell Lord Starscream first, but I promise it’ll be worth the wait.” She bounced on the balls of her feet as Chromia wiped out the circle, and then Windblade was gone. The red ribbons braided into her plaits--Windblade’s only act of vanity (thus far)--bounced against her back as she ran out of the room.

Lord Starscream was in his office, a room she vaguely understood the location of, but she found it with minimal difficulty. She took a moment outside of the half-open door to catch her breath and to straighten her hair, and then she knocked.

“It’s open,” Starscream drawled, and she pushed the door open. He was seated at his desk--she would later be informed that it was technically an _escritoire_ \--with a pair of thin glasses perched on his nose. His main aide, Rattrap, was seated across the desk from him. “Princess Windblade.”

She bowed. “My lord. Am I interrupting something?”

“Nothing important,” Starscream told her, gesturing for Rattrap to go. Rattrap left, but not after looking over Windblade with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. She felt dirty, but she did her best to ignore him. “What can I do for you, Your Highness?”

“There’s something I’d like to show you,” she told him, “but only if the timing is acceptable.”

He considered her, and then he folded up his glasses and placed them on his desk. He stood up and found his coat, and she stepped aside to let him out of his office. “Are you leading me, my lady?”

He relished in the flash of discomfort that crossed her face before she gave him a tight smile. “Of course, my lord.”

Where she led him was deep beneath the palace, deeper even than he thought the foundations ran. The air down there was cold but curiously dry, and Windblade summoned a ball of fire to light their way. He examined the flames as they descended; fascinatingly so, the flames appeared to require no fuel. However, the flames threw off no heat, something he resented as the air grew even chillier. “Your flames?” he asked after he felt enough time had passed. “There’s no heat.”

“Oh, I know,” she replied as she glanced over her shoulder at him. “There’s no fuel. No fuel, no heat. Light is easy enough to summon, every witch can do it.”

He shrugged an agreement. “Are you used to exploring the bowels of various palaces and castles?”

“I’ve seen more of some castles than the occupants,” she deadpanned. “This one is cleaner than the others.”

“Oh good, something I can feel proud of.” It cheered him up a little, and he walked a little faster to walk in step with the Princess.

“You should--hold up.” She stopped him with an arm against his chest. He strained to hear what she had heard, but to his surprise she knelt down and clicked her tongue, and a weak mew answered her. A small kitten of indeterminate color toddled out, painfully thin with matted fur, and when the kitten sniffed Windblade’s fingers, she swept up the kitten into her arms. “Oh, sweet one,” she murmured. Crimson magic sparkled around her fingers and sank into the kitten’s body, and to Starscream’s disbelief, she tucked the kitten inside the top of her robe.

“That's a good way to get savaged,” he was acerbic--he rarely got along with animals.

“I'll be fine,” Windblade said with tranquillity. “It's not always a bad thing to take risks, Lord Starscream.”

“Sentimentality, “ he muttered.

“It doesn't hurt to engage in it sometimes.” Kitten tended to, Windblade starting walking forward again. “Especially with one so _cute_.”

“I hope you get fleas,” he informed her.

She laughed at him, something that did not appeal to his dignity, and then moved forward into the darkness. He scrambled after her to keep from getting left behind, and she asked, “Did I hear something about a convocation of ambassadors?”

“Iacon in early autumn is a lovely time for ambassadors of neighboring countries to meet,” he said. “The temperatures are crisp and there’s a lack of moisture in the air. I believe Carcer, Navitas, and the Chief Justice are all sending representatives.”

“Oh, if they’re sending their usual ambassadors, that should be lovely,” she said. “Do they stay the length of the season?”

“Only about two weeks. Do you have any recommendations for the menu?”

She glanced at him, startled, and he rolled his eyes. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you pick at your food when we eat together.”

“I struggle with cream,” she said quietly. “It makes me sick.”

He stared at her. “Oh--I won’t do that anymore.”

“I did wonder why you serve me northern Cybertronian fare when you and Afterburner eat southern Cybertronian food,” she observed.

“I thought it would be closer to Camien fare,” he shrugged.

She shook her head. “It’s--it’s a lot of rice, vegetables, and meat. One of the low lying towns substitutes their pork and chicken with fish, but in the capital city, we rely on pork and chicken. Cows need more grazing land than we can afford, so cream is utterly foreign.”

“That is likely why you have difficulty with it.”

“Precisely,” she agreed. “Here we are.”

‘Here’ was a sealed wall, and he raised an eyebrow at her. She gestured the ball of flame to him, and with a flare of his own magic, he took over the lights. She gave him the kitten, who squeaked at the transfer but was content to sleep in Starscream’s pocket (the kitten was _so tiny_ ), and then she turned to face the wall.

The cherry fire of her magic lit up around her hands and deepened the shadows around her eyes. Through intricate hand gestures--gestures of invocation, the theorist in him noted--her magic brightened until it would have lit up the room, except that it did not. Her eyes were a brighter blue, and with one final turn, she fed the magic through her outstretched hands to the wall.

The magic sank into the edge of the wall and lit up in a circle, and Windblade commanded, “ _Open_.”

Starscream’s jaw dropped when, with a loud grinding sound, the wall moved aside. He stepped past Windblade to stare at large glass tubes set into a stone wall. The air was utterly still, and she stopped him with a hand on his arm, and he shivered; her skin still tingled with her magic. She clapped twice and pointed her hands up at the ceiling, and pure light sparked into being near the ceiling, where crystal globes were suspended. The light skipped along to the next set of globes, until the glass tubes shone with the reflection.

“What _is_ this place?”

“It’s a seed vault,” she said.

“A _what?_ ”

“Look.” She led him to the closest set of tubes and selected one. She shook it a bit, and he saw small brown slivers in it. “These are cilantro seeds. Whoever set this up--and this type of project would take generations--was afraid of a famine or extinction, so they saved seeds and sealed them within these tubes so that when the time came, the people could survive again. Judging from the disarray outside, though, I would guess at some point, people forgot. It’s a good thing the Senate didn’t know about this place. What with Metroplex and the seed vault, they could have held out indefinitely in the event of a siege.” She replaced the tube. “Caminus has one too, but on a _much_ smaller scale.” She took in the depth and height of the room, and how the glass tubes went nearly up to the ceiling. “If I had to guess, I would say that they collected seeds from all four corners of Cybertron and stored them here.”

“How does this help me?” he demanded.

She wandered off down the room. “Not immediately. But it does mean that when I can revitalize the soil, you can get your agriculture back.” She was checking tubes? “When you think about a plant that lives forever, what do you think of?”

“A tree,” he grumbled. “But they don’t, exactly.”

“Yes, I know a tree, but what _kind_ of tree?”

“I don’t know--oak, perhaps.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought,” she murmured. “I wanted to show you this as soon as I knew it existed. I understand I’ve stepped on your authority and I wanted to make up for that.”

“It doesn’t stop you from giving me a no doubt flea-ridden kitten,” he retorted.

“I have a handy little spell for that. You needn’t worry for your silks.” She breathed on the cap of one of the tubes and poured the contents into one hand. With another flicker, she resealed it and tucked the seed into her pocket.

He pointed to it. “What’s that?”

“Something for Metroplex. I need to present it to him, and present _you_ to him. You should know your city.”

That...was not a bad plan. “When?”

“Soon. Before or after the ambassadors?”

“Before,” he decided. “They won’t be here for another week.”

“I’ll make the arrangements.” She came back to him. “I think this room perfectly encapsulates the Cybertronian experience, wouldn’t you say?”

“What do you mean?” he asked warily.

She gestured to the rest of the vault. “If and of themselves, these seeds hold no value until they can be used. Once they’re used, they’ll support and feed so many people. From seeming death, comes life.” She smiled at him. “I love that.”

She would. “I still think you’re sentimental.”

“Well, you will just have to put up with it,” she teased. “Do you want me to take the kitten back?”

He glanced down at his pocket. “No, it’s fine where it is. It’s asleep.”

“Fair enough.” She summoned more light and sealed the room back up behind them. “Thank you for letting me show this to you.”

Struck by his own sentimentality, he said, “You’re welcome.”

* * *

 

Bumblebee leaned heavily on his cane as he stared at Prowl’s back. Prowl was leaning over the large balcony rail, toward Iacon, and past the treeline, there was a bright beam of white light stabbing the night sky. “Did you hear about the Princess of Caminus’ arrival?”

Bumblebee shifted slightly. “It’s not unusual for ambassadors to visit Iacon. In fact, many have.”

“They’re all untitled nobodies,” Prowl spat. “But the _Princess_ of _Caminus_ , our closest neighbor, arrives to give legitimacy to Starscream’s rule!”

Bumblebee chose not to respond to that. While it was technically true, the Autobots had no hope of taking Iacon, even less hope of holding it, no matter how Prowl put his mind and magic to the task. “Iacon is stable now. Caminus wishes to honor that stability.” The best chance they had of taking Iacon were the last few years of Megatron’s reign, when he was at his most oppressive, but Starscream beat them to the punch, and then it was all over.

“Starscream is cursed!”

“Why am I here?” Bumblebee sighed. “You don’t need an audience to rant.”

“If the Princess were to suddenly disappear when in Starscream’s company…”

“ _No_.” Bumblebee tightened his grip on his cane. “Do not do this. We’ve been finally getting somewhere in establishing our land, do not invoke the wrath of Starscream.”

“Starscream is just a man. But the Princess...do you know what kind of power she possesses?”

Bumblebee felt a chill. “What does she possess?”

Prowl turned to face him, his eyes wild in his bone-pale face. “She can _create life_ , Bumblebee.”

“That’s ridiculous. No one can create life. Healers can restore it but it can’t be created.”

“She can. And now she’s working that power in Starscream’s benefit. Either she disappears or she dies, and we arrange it so that Caminus will blame Starscream--and who is Caminus allied with? Carcer. Those two states would ally to destroy Starscream, and when he’s gone, who’s left?” Prowl smiled. “ _Us_.”

Bumblebee shook his head. “I won’t condone it.”

“Why not? Don’t you want to destroy Starscream? Don’t you want to see Optimus’ legacy honored?”

“Don’t you talk to me about Optimus’ legacy,” Bumblebee shouted. “He fought for peace! That’s what he fought for! For better or worse, that’s what he wanted, and now we have it. It’s not perfect, and no one thought it would be Starscream, but peace is what he wanted. Aren’t you tired of war?”

Prowl stared at him. “He fought to reunite Cybertron, how can you--?”

“Our people deserve more than perpetual war,” Bumblebee said quietly. “They want more for their lives than swords and war magic. Starscream was chosen--we can’t change that. It’s best to just accept that.”

“Accept-- _accept?_ Have you taken leave of your senses?! This is our Cybertron we’re discussing, in the hands of _Starscream._ How can you accept that?!”

Bumblebee sighed. “We lost, Prowl. It’s time to accept that.”

“We never accept it until we’re _dead_.”

Bumblebee shook his head and turned to leave. “Apply that famous pragmatism, Prowl.”

Prowl waited until Bumblebee was gone, and then he drummed his fingers on the bannister. Bumblebee was wrong, and he needed to see that. Prowl would show him.

* * *

 

Starscream let himself in to Windblade’s study. Her ladies were hurrying to and fro with agriculture records, while the Princess was seated at the center table with a pile of notes. The kitten from the day prior was asleep on the table--was it in a tiny scarlet robe? Oh _no._

“Why is that kitten in clothes?”

“Because we had to shave the kitten,” Windblade said without looking up. “The poor thing’s fur was so matted we couldn’t wash out all the dirt. He’s clean now.”

“He?”

“Until the kitten decides otherwise, I’d prefer to call him ‘he.’” She looked up at him and bounced the tip of her graphite pen against the table. “What can I do for you, my lord?”

He sat down next to her at the round table, and the kitten sensed his presence. The tiny, shaved thing stretched before turning over and jumping into his lap, where the kitten curled up and promptly went back to sleep. Touched, Starscream ran a hand down the kitten’s back, and the kitten started to purr. “When can you get me to Metroplex?”

“Tonight, if you wish.” Windblade put down her pen to rest her chin in her hand. “It’s easier to get away at night.”

Starscream started to scratch the kitten under the chin. “That is acceptable to me. Are you joining me for dinner?”

“Are you serving anything with cream in it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then I will happily join you.” She glanced at the kitten in his lap. “You know, we haven’t named him yet.”

“Really?”

“I thought perhaps you might enjoy the privilege.”

“I’ve never named a cat before.” He looked down at the kitten. “What was his fur color when you’d cleaned him up?”

“He has an undercoat and overcoat. The undercoat is a rich brown, but I have no idea what the overcoat will be.” She returned to her agricultural notes.

“Why save him?”

“Why not save him?” Windblade raised her eyebrows at him. “He came to me, asking for help. If I can give it, I will.”

“So you only help those who come to you?”

“I believe that whoever comes to me is sent by Solus,” she said. “If I come upon someone who needs my help, I believe the situation was engineered by Solus. Essentially, I help in whatever capacity I am capable of.”

“Not everyone will be grateful for such help,” he grumbled.

“It’s a good thing I’m not doing it for the thanks I get, then.”

“So then why do you do it? Religious devotion?”

“Something like that, yes.” She pushed her notes toward him. “I’ve been looking over the established climate and agricultural patterns from prior to the war, and I have a suspicion.”

“Does it _help_ me?”

“Not hugely, but it provides an explanation.”

“All right, tell me.”

“I believe that the climate was magically adjusted to make a longer harvest season and to prevent unfavorable climate conditions for an agrarian economy.”

“So?” he demanded.

She rolled her eyes. “Do you know _anything_ about long term magical meddling in unpredictable patterns?”

“Presume I’m an idiot.”

She sighed and sat up. The kitten was still fast asleep on Lord Starscream’s lap, and she didn’t want to wake him by sniping. “A certain amount of magical adjustment of climate is, um, acceptable within certain limits--such as redirecting lightning or wind. _Constant_ magical adjustment, in both large and small ways, can lead to--barrenness. It’s the best word, I suppose.” She took a piece of paper and drew a balanced scale. “Little bits of magic don’t affect it too much--the magic in the land sustains the magic in the air, and vice versa. The magic in rain protects the life magic in dirt, and when the water runs through the dirt en route to the water table or to where it can evaporate, the life magic restores the magic in the water. With me so far?”

“I’m not _that_ much of an idiot.”

“Good to know. Now, when magic is added to the scale to the water, initially the land will produce a lot. The water will be very rich. But it’s like an addiction, in a way--it always needs more to stay constant. Then,” she X’d out the foreign magic, “when you have _no_ magic coming in when the area has adjusted to too much magic, all of the life magic abruptly goes away. There’s no cycle anymore. In a way, balance has been restored by a lack of magic on either side of the balance, but there’s no way to make it a _positive_ balance.” She looked at him. “Do you see?”

“So it’s not my fault about the dead area?”

She nodded. She wasn’t even sure if it was his fault that rain didn’t fall, but that was a better conversation to have with evidence instead of ‘my experience with Primus is that he doesn’t punish his followers for attempting to restore some kind of peace.’ “I just can’t think of _why_ they thought it was necessary. If it was something they had always done, then they would have come to this problem long before you came along, just because it would take more and more magic to accomplish the same thing.”

He shifted restlessly. He didn’t really _care_ about why it happened; he just wanted to know what she was going to do about it. “So? Your plan?”

“What I am going to try to do--in batches and varying experiments--is to restore the life magic in the soil. I’ll anchor it with quartz, because quartz can act as a magnifier to basic types of magic, and life magic is the most basic there is, and once my experiments begin to return with fertile soil, we’ll collect the soil and begin to integrate into the fields outside of the city walls.” She beamed at him. “It’s ambitious and will take time, but it’s the best solution I can come up with.”

“How much time?”

“I’ll need to finess my experiments, but if all goes well, I might be able to begin starting next spring.”

“You need all winter to gather enough dirt?”

“For life to flourish in dirt, it needs to be warm. I can make that happen, but not on a large scale. At some point, every witch has to learn their limits, and I can’t fight winter.”

“Have you tried?”

Her cheeks flushed with temper, and Starscream tucked away the amusement at how easy she was to rile. “ _Yes_ , actually.”

“ _Do_ tell.”

“It resulted in me being in a coma for nearly three months when I was fifteen,” she retorted. “Trust me, I learned from my mistakes.”

“So you would remain here…”

“For at least a year, just to get in next year’s harvest.” She peered at him. “Is that acceptable?”

“If it helps my people, I’ll accept anything.” He waved a hand. “I’ll send a runner for dinner. Wait, why is the kitten starting to complain?”

The kitten _was_ complaining at Starscream’s movement, and it took Windblade a moment to discover exactly why. “Oh! He’s hungry.”

“Hungry,” Starscream repeated.

“Yes. Would you like to feed him?”

“Feed--does that involve holding raw meat?”

“He’s too little to eat solid food,” she said distractedly as she searched for the formula she had perfected. It was on the little warming plate, and she poured it from the small pitcher into a glass bottle with a rubber top. “Here.”

Starscream took the bottle and looked utterly lost, so much so that Windblade was tempted to smile but restrained herself. She took the bottle back and positioned it so that the rubber top was near the kitten’s mouth, and the kitten applied himself enthusiastically. She took Starscream’s hand and wrapped it around the bottle, and once Starscream had a good handle on it, she wandered away from the table to put the pitcher back on the warming plate. The trick was to keep it warm enough to serve but not warm enough to scald or sour the cream in it.

She had learned how to do it from the castle cat-keepers, when she had escaped her lessons and sought animals to play with. Her mother had decided to post her at the castle cattery in an effort to place her where she could be watched out but out of trouble, and naturally she had fallen in love with the work. From there, she worked with the kennels and the mews, until every animal in the castle knew her on site and were shameless about begging her for attention.

She always gave it. It was gratifying, to be so wanted.

Starscream tucked the kitten a little closer to his lower stomach in an effort to keep the poor thing warm as the kitten gulped down the contents on the bottle. His little stomach was bulging by the time he pushed the bottle away, and as Starscream placed the bottle on the table, the kitten climbed into his shirt and promptly went back to sleep. He was almost--touched. He had never been chosen by an animal before, not like how Soundwave was chosen by his animals. Most of them disliked the feel of his magic and would actively avoid him.

“He likes you,” Windblade said, eyeing the tip of the dark tail outside of Starscream’s shirt. “You should definitely name him.”

“Me?”

“Why not? He certainly prefers your company to mine or my ladies.”

Starscream looked down at the kitten. Maybe it was just the angle of the kitten’s face, but the kitten looked like he was smirking in his sleep.

Starscream could work with that.

“Mau,” he decided.

Windblade pressed her lips together in an effort not to laugh. “Mau?” she repeated delicately.

“If he decides he would prefer other pronouns, Mau still applies.”

“I can accept that. Are you taking him with you?”

Starscream tucked one hand under the kitten’s body. “I don’t see that I have much of a choice. I’ll summon you for dinner.”

“Thank you,” she murmured as he left her study. “Always a pleasure.”

\--

“You should have heard Mau complaining when I left him in my room,” Starscream informed her as she held the door open for him to exit into the courtyard. “He doesn’t appear to like closed doors.”

Windblade hid her smile in the shadows. “In my experience there are two kinds of cats: the extraordinarily clingy, and the kind that like to know where you are but do not want affection. _Also_ in my experience, the cats that as kittens were forced to rely on humans for food are cats that end up being the most clingy.”

He stared at her. “You set me up.”

“Did I? Here we are.” She placed a hand on an innocent wall, and it glowed under her hand before vanishing.

“I don’t like that the wall can be disappeared,” he fussed.

“It can only be disappeared by my magic and my magic alone. You would be all right in the event of a siege.” She started into the darkness. “Are you coming?”

He frowned and followed after her. The stairs went down and down, and the only light provided was from the orb of flame hanging over Windblade’s shoulder. “Do you feel like we’re descending into the Underworld?”

“It’s _an_ Underworld,” she said over her shoulder. “If that’s what you prefer to think.”

“That isn’t a comforting thought.”

“It wasn’t meant to be, if you think of the Underworld as a place of punishment. If you see the Underworld as a place of healing, it’s very comforting.”

“And where do _you_ stand on the death question?” he demanded. It was very important for her to have the right answer.

“I believe the afterlife is what you make it,” she said. “Your beliefs shape your experience.”

“And _your_ beliefs?”

“That’s a personal question.”

“So?”

“I don’t owe you an answer.” She stopped in front of him. “Here.” She extinguished the light, and Starscream had a moment of disorientation in the sudden dark before blue light bloomed under a spring. The water rippled, reflecting the ripples oddly on the cavern roof. The rock formation in the very center was the bright beam of light, but thanks to the twists of the staircase, it provided no light until you were precisely at the spring.

His jaw dropped at the size of the cavern, hidden under his own city--! How did he not know it was there?

Windblade beginning to disrobe only made him more agog. “What are you doing?!”

“Making myself vulnerable,” she said calmly. “To meet the city as myself instead of with the trappings of being a Princess. You should too.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Do you have to know everything?” she said with a touch of irritation. “Can’t you just trust what I’m about?”

She stood in front of him with loose hair--it was still braided but no longer pinned in intricate patterns around her head--and in a robe that draped over her torso and hips and then fell to her shins. “Will you tell me later?”

“ _Yes_.”

That was good enough, and he started to shuck off his outer robes. He left on his leggings and undershirt, and once it was done, she offered her hand. After a moment of hesitation, he took it, and she led him out into the spring. It took him a moment to realize that they were walking on the surface tension of the water, and he wobbled for a moment.

She looked at him, her blue eyes glowing in the light. “Don’t think about it,” she advised. “If you think about it, you’ll fall through. It’s an act of faith.”

He tightened his grip on her hand and thought about the rock formation in the center of the pool. He had a suspicion that the cavern was underneath the center of the city, and the rock formation was the exact epicenter.

The _heart_. The Princess had not been exaggerating.

The strange feeling of silky glass underneath his feet turned into smooth stone, and Windblade reached into the top of her robe and pulled out an acorn-- _the_ acorn from a few days ago. It looked dead, the seed yellow instead of a healthy brown, and Windblade dropped his hand to cup both around the acorn. He saw her magic seep into the acorn, the crimson mist turning it briefly orange before the acorn returned to a burnished amber. She placed the acorn into the small well at the top of the rock formation, and the light began to pull back until it was concentrated in the small bowl at the very top.

The ground underneath his feet rumbled slightly, and Windblade inclined her head. “This is the city ruler, Starscream.” She turned to him and said, “Place your hand on the stone.”

Again, after the briefest hesitation, he did so, and the stone warmed up under his hand. He waited for something--the Princess was clearly waiting for something--and then the city opened up to him.

 _I know who you are. I know_ what _you are._

That was all the warning he received before Metroplex slammed him with everything the city had ever dealt with from the last twenty-five years of conflict--how Metroplex had created cellars and basements for his children to hide in every time Iacon was besieged, and that it still was not enough to prevent the massacres.

Then the uncertain years of Megatron’s rule, how he had beheaded anyone he saw as a traitor and demanded tribute from his people to the extent that they were starving to keep Megatron in comfort. Again, Metroplex had tried to help by imbuing the soil of their gardens with his magic so that a crop was triple than the expected amount, but still starvation and disease stalked the city.

“I know that!” he shouted, or thought he did. “That was why I _killed_ him!”

**_But before that, you stood idly by._ **

Metroplex’s emphasis drove Starscream to his knees. Panic, fear, and anger were thrumming through him, and only part of that cocktail of emotion was his. “I’m--making up for it,” he gasped, “I can’t change the past, but I can change the present to impact the future.”

The weight of Metroplex’s presence lessened slightly. _You forget,_ **_Lord_ ** _Starscream--without Life to balance it, Death will bring nothing but ruin._

Starscream stiffened. “I’m doing the best that I can.”

 _Without Life to balance it,_ Metroplex repeated, _Death will bring nothing but ruin._

With that, Metroplex retreated from him entirely, and he realized he was kneeling on the stone, blood pouring from his nose. There was a ripping noise, and then Windblade was crouched in front of him with a piece of cloth. He took it and pinched his nostrils, and he looked at her. “Did you hear any of that?”

She shook her head. “Your conversation was between the two of you only. As it was not meant for my ears, I heard nothing.”

“You take a lot of word to say ‘no.’” He slowly pushed himself to his feet, and he shook off her offered arm. “What was the point of this meeting?”

Her gaze was measured, and if he’d pricked her temper, she didn’t show it. “You needed to understand.”

“Understand _what?_ ”

“You are only the lord of this city because Metroplex allows it.”

He reached out and backhanded her without thinking about. She rocked backwards and nearly fell, the sound of the slap ringing through the silent cavern. When she had righted herself, he was on his feet with the scrap of cloth from his bleeding nose in his pocket. “Do _not_ think that being an ambassador and a ‘cityspeaker’ gives you the right to speak to me in that way. You know _nothing_ about what I have dealt with to get to where I am and what I have done to keep myself there. Do not threaten me, Princess.”

She held her cheek in one hand, and even in the half-light he could see how her white facial tattoos were livid against her reddening skin. “It was not a threat, Lord Starscream,” she said quietly. “Merely a fact. And despite appearances, Metroplex is not unhappy with you.”

“Really.”

“Indeed,” she confirmed with the slightest hint of a wry smile. “Your people are as well-fed as they could be under the circumstances. Disease is relegated to seasonal afflictions instead of circumstance-driven epidemics. You yourself, despite your love for luxury, do not place that luxury above the worth of your peoples’ lives. You have even requested my help specifically to better help your people. Obviously, there are political benefits specific to you, but you can engage in selfish acts of power that benefit your people. So Metroplex is not unhappy with your rule.”

He stared at her, a little appalled at how easily she put it into words--and ashamed of himself. Well, a _little_ ashamed of himself. She had been trying his patience from the time he met her, what with her ignoring his ownership of his palace and going into _his_ city to find something _without his leave_ , and even though Starscream was in the position where he couldn’t hit someone and have the problem solved anymore (he wasn’t _Megatron_ ), there was also the slightest bit of satisfaction at slapping her.

Still, he should apologize, if only for diplomatic relations. “My apologies,” he grated. “I--overreacted.”

“We should leave,” she said distantly. “Your cat will be wanting you.”

This time, when they crossed the spring, he was the one who took her hand, but as soon as they reached the stairs, she shook free of him and went up the stairs. Her robes were draped over her arm, and he accepted that she had a right to her temper.

It just didn’t mean he _agreed_ with it.

When he found his way to his rooms, he saw Mau curled up on his pillow. After he changed into his sleeping robes, he nudged the kitten. “You can’t steal my pillow,” he told Mau flatly.

Mau yawned and stretched, and to all appearances, ignored him. Starscream finally moved Mau, and then he tucked himself into bed.

When he woke up in the morning, Mau was curled around his head...on the pillow.

“Stupid pussy,” he grumbled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I firmly believe Starscream would be a cat person, but the cat who follows you from room to room that the cat knows where you are but is not a hugely affectionate creature. Windblade's the other end of the cat spectrum. (Okay, that's a lie, I think Windblade would be an animal person like Newt Scamander but she would particularly love cats). 
> 
> And now you know what the Autobots are up to! Well. Sort of. It was interesting to put myself in Bumblebee's head for this story, because RiD!Bee is very different from IDW!Bee, but they share the same affectionate protectiveness. 
> 
> I love comments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved all the comments! Seriously, they made my day when I received them and it helped me nudge everyone into shape. Starscream and Prowl have been SO RIDICULOUS lately, I hate it. 
> 
> This chapter features SCIENCE!!!!1!!! and also diplomacy.
> 
> Warnings for explicit violence in this chapter. Also, Ze Plot Has Arrived! Well. The rest of it.

**CHAPTER FOUR: TRIALS AND EXPERIMENTS**

Windblade crouched to examine the grey soil through the glass pot as she poured in spring-water. Compost formed a solid layer on the bottom, and it was her hope that the compost fertilizer, plus spring water, would pour life magic back into the soil. When the soil turned dark, it would be ready for bean seeds.

She had to be careful with the amount of water per pot; too much water and the soil would drown and the compost would rot, but too little and it wouldn’t be enough. The magic coming off the spring water was almost enough to make her dizzy, but that was  _ good _ . If everything went according to what she hoped, it would work out. 

“My lady, where do you wish for me to place these bean plants?”

Windblade rose to give a smile to her borrowed plant witch, Hound. His arms were full of the baby plants, and she gestured to the clay pots on the other side of the room. “They should be planted there for now, I think. Their soil can be used later.”

“Yes, my lady.”

After all the glass pots had been watered, she returned to her table to make notes. The only way she could know if changes were made was if she logged it, and she needed to be able to repeat her results. She jotted down the time, the pot placement to sunlight, the amount of water per each pot, and the amount of compost versus soil. If this failed, she would have a record so that she didn’t have to start from scratch.

Hound’s project, on the other side of the building, was to raise bean plants in a combination of city and field soil. The city soil was enough to get the bean plants going, and as the bean plants grew, they would return nutrients to the field soil. Again, his experiments had varying amounts of city soil to field soil, and he was tracking the health of the soil and the plants. 

Magic could only take them a part of the way, and too much magic in the soil had caused the problem in the first place. It needed to be the bare basics to get the growing started; the soil had to rely on its own inherent magic.

She smiled at the room, filled with the scent of damp soil and growing things. It was a good start.

“Princess!”

She held back a sigh as she rose and bowed to Lord Starscream. “Yes, my lord?”

“What is your progress?”

Of  _ course _ he would ask that.

“We’ve finally been able to begin, my lord,” she said, as politely as she could. She was still angry over him hitting her, even if the mark had faded by the morning. She  _ did not _ deserve that for stating a simple fact.

“And?”

“As we’ve only begun, there is no progress yet to report. I can assure you that as soon as there  _ is _ something to report, you will be the first to know. My lord.”

He peered at her in discontent, but then he waved his hand. “Carry on.”

“Thank you for your permission,” she said under her breath. She didn’t look to see if he had gone, too absorbed in her experiments.

-

Starscream surveyed the room of ambassadors with satisfaction. He could host an  _ excellent _ party, no one could doubt that--the ambassadors were in clusters around the banquet tables that he had set up with various nibbles and delicacies. The room was loud with chatter and music from the string quartet tucked into the second floor music gallery. Later, there would be dancing and wine.

It was turning out splendidly.

The Princess slipped into the party unobtrusively, or so she thought, but she was well-known to the diplomats in the room, apparently, and they greeted her with cheers. She laughed and allowed herself to be pulled into a knot with the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord and the Eukarian ambassadors, where they plied her with food and a glass of wine. Starscream elected to ignore this inconvenience and began to make the rounds to introduce himself  _ yet again _ to those who used Cybertron as neutral ground to settle longstanding grievances.

The twins from Devishun were pleased to see him, and he spent a companionable fifteen minutes with them, exchanging little anecdotes about his new kitten (he had learned about 2 ambassadors ago that people  _ always _ enjoyed stories about cute animals doing things), and how Mau liked to cry in the morning until Starscream got up and gave the kitten the attention he so clearly wanted.

“And cat fur is all over my bedsheets,” he groused playfully. “Which means it gets all over my bed robes, and I don’t know about you, gentlemen, but only  _ some _ people can wear cat fur and make it look intentional.”

The twins burbled with laughter, and Starscream left them alone, pleased with himself. Megatron had never learned the art of gentle self-deprecation; people liked to laugh at jokes that were aimed at the person  _ telling _ the joke. You had to have an ego flexible enough to manage it. 

“My lord Starscream.”

Starscream bowed. “Lord Obsidian. It’s been a while.”

The Carcer delegate looked at him wryly from his floating chair, kept that way by wind magic. Starscream supposed that sitting near Obsidian during the high heat of summer was a blessing, but not necessarily in winter, which he had heard could get  _ extremely _ raw in Carcer. “Indeed, my lord. Walk with me?”

“Of course.” This particular audience hall was on the first floor--for Obsidian’s benefit, of course--and spilled out onto a verandah that would normally look out into the flower gardens. Now, those gardens were given over to plain vegetable gardening, and the moonlight reflected on the greenhouses in the distance. “What can I do for you, my lord?”

“I understand that the Princess of Caminus has been enjoying your hospitality of late.”

“She has. She has been most...educational.”

Obsidian’s lips turned up at the corners in the thinnest smile Starscream had ever seen. “She is,” he agreed. “My Liege General would agree with that.”

Curiosity piqued, as no doubt Obsidian meant for him to be, Starscream leaned in slightly. “Your Liege General is on speaking terms with her, then?”

“Oh, more than that. The Princess was a pleasurable companion for my Liege General during her stay. She was a most honored guest.”

‘Most honored guest’--diplomatic double-speak for a prisoner or a hostage. And ‘pleasurable companion?’ Starscream hadn’t heard much about the Liege General of Carcer, but he didn’t think she would violate the rules of hospitality and diplomacy. 

“What project did she work on for the Liege General, then?”

Obsidian’s eyes sparked with mirth. “Plumbing, my lord.”

Starscream eyed him. He could work in double-entendres like the finest diplomat himself, but Obsidian had a greater purpose here. “I am confident she did a wonderful job.”

“The Liege General would agree with you.”

“Forgive my blunt speaking, my lord, but I fail to see Carcer’s interest in this conversation.” This very  _ strange _ conversation.

“Do you know anything about the Caminus-Carcer situation?”

“Merely that it has been a trying one over the last few decades.”  _ That _ was putting it mildly. Carcer kept attempting to conquer Caminus every few generations, but somehow Caminus--not exactly a military power--always held out.

“Yes, well.” Obsidian shifted in his chair. “My Liege General believes that the Princess of Caminus is the key to maintaining balance with our respective countries, but that perhaps it would assist if she was more...neutral.”

“She’s the Princess of Caminus,” Starscream pointed out. “She’s never going to be neutral about it.”

“She might,” Obsidian’s gaze was direct, “if her allegiance were to another country.”

Starscream tilted his head. “What interest does Carcer have in her marriage?” Best to play dumb, if Obsidian was insinuating what Starscream  _ thought _ he was insinuating.

“Like I said, my lord, my Liege General is fond of her and wants to see her happy. At this point in your acquaintance, you surely must have noticed that the Princess is at her most content when she has a problem to solve. There are not many problems to solve in Caminus.” Obsidian sniffed. “A backwater.”

“The Princess has no interest in marriage at the moment, doesn’t she?” That’s what it seemed like--or was she not allowed to be married? Starscream was a bit fuzzy on the details.

“So she thinks,” Obsidian shrugged. “But if the right opportunity were to present itself…”

“I don’t understand,” Starscream told him. “I have no influence over the Princess’ affairs.”

“You  _ could _ .”

Starscream pursed his lips. “I will need you to speak more plainly than that.” Was Carcer  _ really _ offering…?

“We would back your proposal to her.”

Ah.

“And why should I propose?” Starscream inquired. 

“It’s entirely up to you,” Obsidian said easily. “But she is regarded highly amongst your nearest neighbors, and she is not...unpleasant to look at or be with.”

They both turned to look into the audience hall, where the Princess was at the center of a few ambassadors, listening intently to the Navitan visitors. The light caught on her golden jewelry and lit up her skin, and Obsidian made a low noise of approval. “You see?”

“I have no interest in marriage,” Starscream dismissed. “If I was, I would have done so by now.”

“There are rumors about your lack of interest.”

“Such as?” Choose wisely, ambassador.

Obsidian folded his hands on his lap. “That you were cursed to be unable to love until the right person would thaw your frozen heart.”

Starscream’s eyes narrowed. That was too close to what Megatron  _ had _ cursed him with, although the exact wording went more along like that he would be cursed to be unable to solve his problems until he found someone  _ worthy _ of true love. Of course, that was the gist. Starscream wasn’t able to remember the exact wording due to screaming in pain. “My heart is hardly frozen,” he said lightly. “I have a cat. He purrs all over me while I groom him. If that isn’t love, what is?”

Obsidian scowled for a moment, and then not a second too soon, Windblade stood in front of them. She bowed to them both and said to Obsidian, “Would you care to dance, my lord?”

“I fear I am still tired from traveling,” Obsidian replied, adopting a yawn. “Perhaps the Lord Starscream would accept in my place?”

Both Windblade and Starscream shot the unconcerned Carcerian ambassador a Look, but since it would be impolite to disagree, Starscream offered his hand to Windblade. “Shall we, Your Highness?”

She took it as the musicians struck up a reel, one of the dances native to--oh, where was it again? Windblade was adept at the jumps, but the speed of the dance kept them from speaking to each other. They were drawing eyes from all over the room--ambassadors were invertebrate gossips--and over Windblade’s shoulder he saw Obsidian murmur something to one of the twins from Devishun.

When the music turned to something slower, Windblade stayed with him. “So what did Lord Obsidian want?” she inquired as he turned her carefully. She wasn’t in one of her usual high-waisted robes; the robe crossed over her torso but flared into a larger skirt past her hips. “He dislikes parties. He finds them wasteful.”

“Carcer is interested in your marriage,” he informed her.

She snorted. “Carcer’s  _ always _ been interested in my marriage. They would dislike me marrying someone who would upset our delicate balance of power. It’s easier to remain single.”

“I thought you weren’t allowed…” he shook his head. “Too many people have been talking at me.”

“My mother is not in favor of me marrying,” she said. “As I have neither the interest or inclination, I am content with our status quo.”

“He also said the Liege General wishes to see you happy.”

“Elita is…” her voice trailed off. “Elita has expectations.”

“And those are?”

The music ended, and she removed herself from his arms. “Complicated, my lord,” she said, and then she walked off.

He shook his head at her display of temperament, and went to find a drink.

Ultra Magnus was waiting for Windblade near the dessert table. He passed her a small plate piled high with candied fruits and nuts, and she nibbled them as they found a quiet corner on the outside verandah. “You should be aware,” the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord warned, “that Starscream plays games.”

“That wasn’t a game,” she flashed a smile at him. “That was Obsidian making trouble.”

“He does that,” Ultra Magnus said in disapproval. “He’s heard some rumors about the two of you and is spreading them.”

“Let him,” Windblade said without interest. “It’s not like there’s anything else to talk about besides Carcer’s near-ready state to go to war. With anyone.”

“About that…”

“Carcer going to war?” Windblade bit into a strawberry. “That’s old news. They won’t, not when they don’t have the advantage. I know Elita that much.”

“Carcer has not signed the Tyrest Accord,” Ultra Magnus said. “They are not obligated to follow the laws of war as Cybertron has set them to be.”

“They’re an entirely different state, Ultra Magnus. They don’t have to.”

Ultra Magnus shook his head. “Every other neighboring state has--even yours. That they have not concerns me.”

“Elita won’t get them into something she can’t get them out of,” Windblade reminded him. “She’s competent and clever.”

“I would not see you pulled into a multi-state conflict because Carcer has interests in you,” Ultra Magnus said with a worried twist of his mouth.

“That’s sweet,” Windblade said gently. “But their interest is purely political.”

“That’s what worries me.”

“Try some of this mango. How is Chief Justice Tyrest these days? I’m beginning to be a little concerned for him.”

“How so?” Ultra Magnus asked as he selected a piece of candied mango.

Windblade hesitated. She would have to be careful about her critiques of the lord Ultra Magnus served. “I read his latest treatise, and--his grammar control appears to be slipping.”

“So it wasn’t just me!” Ultra Magnus shook his head. “I haven’t seen the man in person in months. I keep asking to see him, but his healer won’t let me. I’m...even starting to consider if I should resign my position.”

“ _ No _ .”

“I’ve held it for a long time. It isn’t a position one person should hold for as long as I have.”

“What would you do instead?”

“Read,” Ultra Magnus sighed. “Perhaps even writing a little. Keep Rodimus from getting into too much trouble. Maybe write some recommendations for various state leaders.” He cocked his head. “Did you know that Cybertron still abides by the Tyrest Accord?”

“Really? But I thought it was war law.”

“It is. You should understand that the situation between the Autobots and Starscream’s people has never officially ended, but is rather in a state of--I believe the word is  _ detente. _ I think it’s easier, for Starscream to stick to the Tyrest Accord. Everyone knows it.”

“Perhaps,” she murmured, stepping forward to place her empty plate on the railing so that she could dust off the sugar from her hands. Something glinted within her line of sight, a glint that hadn’t been there before. “He doesn’t appear to trust his own ministers.”

“Does he even have them?”

“I believe he does.” She saw the glint again. “I have never been invited to sit in on the meetings, however.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and gently began to move him toward the doors of the audience hall. The glint moved with them, and she felt a stab of satisfaction. So it was what she thought it was. “Ultra Magnus, why don’t we--?” The glint moved, and she shoved the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord to the ground. A crossbow quarrel shot into the wall where Ultra Magnus’ shoulder had been only a second before, and Windblade apologized profusely. “I am  _ so _ sorry for assaulting you, but we need to  _ go _ .”

Ultra Magnus, ever the pragmatist, didn’t argue as they both got to their feet and  _ ran _ . It was nice not to be scolded for saving someone’s life, and once they got into the audience hall  and away from windows, Windblade shook her head. “Were they aiming at you or me?”

“Does it matter?” Ultra Magnus looked around the audience hall for Lord Starscream. “We didn’t catch them.”

“And they were relying on luck to have caught us out in the open.”

Windblade and Ultra Magnus’ eyes met in a moment of pure understanding, and they chorused together, “That wasn’t the only one.”

Naturally, that was the cue for all hell to break loose.

Across the audience hall, near where Lord Starscream was standing, one of the servants threw aside their cloak to brandish a small crossbow. They yelled something and shot at Starscream, who ducked, but it was enough to begin the typical screaming and rush toward the exits. Several other ‘servants’ (though once Windblade cared to think of it, she didn’t recognize any of them) brought out weapons of their own. One of them was close to Windblade and Ultra Magnus, and she scrabbled for a weapon she didn’t currently possess.

Ultra Magnus saved the moment by stepping past her and in one smooth move, punched the would-be attacker in the jaw and sent them sailing across the room. They hit the ground and skidded on the floor, coming to a violent stop by virtue of hitting the ankles of Lord  _ Starscream’s _ attacker, causing both Starscream’s attacker and hers to fall into a pile.

Lord Starscream glanced at them and tossed off a salute to Ultra Magnus before lunging for the next one.

“We should get you to safety,” Ultra Magnus rumbled. “Lord Starscream--.”

“Right now, the need is to get the ambassadors to safety,” she corrected. “They’ll follow you. Please, Ultra Magnus. If any of them die in this room, it could be an invitation to war that no one wants.”

Ultra Magnus considered it. “And you will get yourself to safety?”

“As quickly as I can,” she promised.

He nodded, and as he left her side to chivvy the remaining ambassadors into a group, Windblade observed how the attackers left them alone once Ultra Magnus corralled them. So the emphasis was  _ not _ on the ambassadors, but then...who? Lord Starscream?

“Windblade,” Afterburner said in her ear. He pushed her down as an arrow thudded into the wall behind her. “They’ve got assassins everywhere. We need to get you out.”

“I think they might be aiming at me.”

“What does that have to do with--.”

She pushed him away slightly. “It means that where I go, they’ll track me. If I stay here, with Chromia and Lord Starscream--,” Chromia had found a heavy iron plate from somewhere and was applying it with abandon, “then we can better control where those assassins go.  _ You _ should go.”

“Princess--.”

“We both know I’m expendable,” she said in as a cheery a manner as she could pull off. From the way Afterburner’s eyebrows furrowed, she knew he heard the bitterness behind it. “You have two daughters.  _ Go _ . That’s an order, my lord.”

“When I see you on the other end of this, we  _ will _ be having a talk about royal privilege,” he grumbled to her as he pushed himself upright. “I mean it.”

“I’ll even look forward to it,” she winked at him. “If you’ll excuse me.” With a mental sigh and a wish for her boots, she vaulted over one of the long dessert tables and pushed it over with a loud crash. Mousse, meringue, sweet wines, and fruit all tumbled to the floor, turning the wood into a minefield for any approaching her. 

From the other dessert table, she grabbed fistfuls of silver cocktail forks and the bowls of candied nuts. From her vantage point behind the overturned table, she lobbed candied almonds, walnuts, and dates at the attackers struggling with Lord Starscream’s Badgeless. Some of them--the assassins, she guessed--turned on her, a variety of weapons in their hands. The heavy oak of the table kept her safe from the arrows--mostly--but those with knives had to get closer. 

The first one she dealt with by throwing a cocktail fork at him. She was aiming for his face, but when he instinctively brought up a hand to protect it, it skewered his palm and he roared. She was pleased with her accuracy, as the forks did not have the best balance for throwing. He dropped the knife, and when he went to pick it back up again, his foot slipped in a pile of mousse and he helpfully cleaned up most of the mess with the back of his shirt. 

Chromia had engaged with one of the bow-users and Windblade judged it safe enough to leave from behind the table. If she stayed, she could get boxed in. Her own foot slipped in some meringue, but she caught herself on the edge of the table and kicked her would-be attacker in the face quite accidentally. He went down again, blood streaming from his nose, and as she tried to stabilize herself from her own defenses, she kicked away his knife.

Buoyed by meringue, mousse and wine, it slid across the floor until it came to a violent stop at another of Lord Starscream’s attackers’ ankle. The assassin yelped, the only true response to a sharp knife embedding itself in one’s ankle, and Lord Starscream decided to assist in relieving the assassin’s pain with a swift cut to the throat. 

“You could actually leave me one,” he complained at her. She glimpsed the sharp spikes rising from the top of his closed fists and shook her head at him.

“I think you’re capable on your own,” she called back. “Bear! A weapon would be nice!”

“On it!” Chromia’s voice was entirely too cheerful for someone throwing around an iron plate with aplomb. 

Instinctively, Windblade darted to the side, and a whistling sound informed her she had just missed being struck by another arrow. Where was it  _ coming _ from? The light globes in the audience hall were too bright and someone had unleashed some kind of...confusion spell, almost. It lay over the room in a brown miasma, and it was making it hard to focus. 

Lord Starscream and Chromia were having no such problems, but the Badgeless were faltering. What was--Windblade caught a fighter’s wrist on the downswing of his sword (there were some benefits to being tall), and she turned into him, levering his arm over her shoulder and throwing him onto the floor. She still had a hold on his wrist, and she twisted it to pop the sword out of his grasp.

It was definitely a Cybertronian sword; Camien swords weren’t near so heavy. The fighter was still conscious but a little dazed, and praying she judged the weight right, she slammed the pommel of the sword into his jaw. He went boneless, his eyes shut, and she looked around for the next opponent.

There were more than one archer, but three of them were on the floor with them. Crossbows didn’t work so well when your target was less than three feet from you, because then it was too easy to dodge. Besides, crossbows took time to restring, and when you were in the thick of it, you didn’t  _ have _ that kind of time.

Archers needed space and distance. Where did that leave?

Her eyes tracked upward to the musicians’ gallery, and there they were--2 archers, armed with crossbows, taking aim at the melee below. Lord Starscream and Chromia could defeat everyone on the ground, but if the archers were still up there, that left everyone vulnerable. 

For all of her maneuverings, she still wasn’t far from the doors that led to the verandah. Thankfully, she was out of shooting range from whomever was out there, but it did mean that she had a long way to go to get to either Chromia, Lord Starscream, or the musician’s gallery. 

Another swordsman took a swing at her, and she blocked it instinctively with the blade she had picked up. Reverberations from the contact rang down the blade and made her hands ache. Camien blades were made for quick, darting movements; this one was for beating and hacking, not the intricacies she knew. Still, she could hold up a credible defense as long as her opponent wasn’t too skilled.

Her opponent was very skilled.

With two quick sweeps, she was disarmed, and the assassin reached out to grab her throat. She still held two cocktail forks, which she stabbed into his arm, but he turned her so that her back was against him. He wrapped one arm around her throat and the other around her middle, pinning her arms against her sides. She choked, wriggling in his grasp in an attempt to breathe while he began to drag her to one of the side doors. 

His forearm was too hot against the sensitive skin of her throat, and she felt his panting against the shell of her ear. She jerked her head back, trying to hurt him, but his arm tightened against her throat. Her vision darkened at the edges and her hands flexed at her sides. Her knees were beginning to collapse and if she lost consciousness, what would…?

There was a clanging noise and the pressure let up abruptly. Windblade slid to the floor and landed on her hands and knees, her throat on fire from her coughing. She couldn’t see what was happening, either, but she did hear the thump of a body on the floor next to her.

Then Chromia was helping her up, and Windblade narrowed her eyes to look at her guard through the instinctive tears. “Have a weapon for me?” she croaked.

Chromia made a disbelieving noise. “ _ I  _ am taking  _ you _ somewhere to safety. Let the Lord Starscream sort his own mess.”

“I think they're after me too,” Windblade argued. Her throat hurt, but she had to convince Chromia. 

“Prove it.”

And lo, as if the assassins in the music gallery had heard her, there came the whistle of an arrow in flight, and once again Windblade found herself on the ground, this time with Chromia’s weight atop her. “Fine,” Chromia grumbled. “What did you have in mind?”

“I need up onto that balcony. You're better down here--I'm going to try to get them  _ off  _ the balcony.” Windblade managed a smile. “You can smash them. You’re good at the smashing.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Come on.” Chromia hauled her upright. “I can give you a jump, but that’s all I can do.” She pressed a sheathed knife into Windblade’s hands. Windblade tucked it into the back of her robe. 

The Badgeless were better fighters than she had given them credit for, but they were still starting to fall. She and Chromia navigated around a knot of Badgeless fighting with two of the soldiers. Chromia reached out, almost carelessly, and punched one of the enemy soldiers in the jaw, dropping them effortlessly. Windblade watched them drop, and then they got to right under the balcony. Chromia put her hands together so that Windblade could jump from Chromia’s hands.

Windblade hesitated. “I’m a little scared.”

“Good. Fear keeps you alive.”

Windblade nodded and stepped up into Chromia’s hands. Chromia’s arms strained briefly, and then Windblade was in the air. She caught herself on the balcony railing, and with a little struggle, she pulled herself over the edge of the railing and onto the balcony in a heap. She really needed to work on her upper arm strength if she was going to do things like that more often.

When she looked up, one of the assassins had his crossbow trained on her. She narrowed her eyes and  _ felt _ for him, and she smiled involuntarily when she found an infection in his wrist. It was small, he wouldn’t have noticed it yet, but she poured magic to feed the poison. Poison lived too, and she could manipulate it.

“Get up,” the assassin said in a heavy accent she didn't recommend. “Your Highness.”

Windblade glanced around for the other assassin but didn’t find them. “And if I don’t?”

The tip of the arrow in the strung crossbow waved slightly. “I’ll shoot you.”

“Will you?” Windblade rose in a rustle of skirts and silk. “If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it already.”

“Can shoot you without killing you.” There was a spasm of discomfort on the assassin’s face, and Windblade fed more power into the poison. In the light, the wrist of the hand holding the crossbow was starting to show streaks of green and yellow, and his wrist was shaking. 

“Are you certain?” Windblade said quietly.

The assassin opened his mouth, but with one last push of magic, he yelled with pain and jerked his arm wildly. He shot the arrow instinctively, and it hit one of the light globes. The lights in the room flickered and went dark, and Windblade went still. She could feel the heartbeat of the assassin in front of her, but where was the other one…?

The blade of an axe buried itself in her shoulder, and she screamed.

Witchlights of various colors popped into existence at her scream, and the blade of the axe retracted. She clapped a hand to the bleeding wound and curled up to protect herself, but the axe-wielder grabbed her arm and hauled her up. She couldn’t help but scream again as her shoulder was jostled carelessly, and then that hand was at her throat.

Dimly, she thought that she hated being choked, and then the hand tightened. She couldn’t see her assailant’s face, but she tried to kick out at them with her feet. There was a chuckle, and she was shaken, like--like someone might shake a kitten. “Prowl’ll have his hands full.”

“You hurt her!”

“Pharma’ll fix her up in a trice. And you?”

“Arm hurts,” the other assassin grunted. “Dunno where it came from.”

“I can guess.” The other one clucked, and his hand tightened further still. Windblade choked, tears misting over her eyes, and her hands scrabbled at the hold on her throat. She couldn’t tell if she couldn’t see because of the lack of air or because of the general darkness, but she was losing strength.

The balcony shuddered, hard, and the assassin’s hand loosened. Windblade felt the railing behind her thighs, and when the balcony shuddered again, she was pushed backwards. “If Starscream wants her so bad, then he can have her,” the assassin snarled.

She could breathe, and with air came a bolt of rage. “Get  _ away _ ,” she hissed, and she pushed her magic in a wave in front of her. Both assassins were blown away from her and off the balcony, but the backlash toppled her from the railing and she fell toward the floor.

It was going to be a painful landing--she could already sense it--but then the pain she expected both did and did not arrive. It  _ did _ arrive because her shoulder made a sudden stop, but it did  _ not _ arrive because she landed in someone’s arms. 

She looked up into the shocked and concerned face of Lord Starscream and promptly fainted.

\--

Starscream was getting tired of Prowl sending assassins who were, by nature, bad at their jobs.

It was clear Jazz was nowhere in regards to this particular mission, because Jazz’s agents had a nasty tendency to succeed. Prowl’s agents had let themselves go with the last few years of relative ‘peace’, and you could never really surprise Starscream, of course.

Unless you were Jazz, which was a memory Starscream was  _ not _ anxious to relive.

This attempted assassination/melee/kidnapping  _ whoever knew _ was yet another notch in the long list of failures. Ravage had informed Starscream before the party that ‘unknown personages’ had come with the ambassadors but were not known to the ambassador’s people. Starscream had assumed--wrongly--that Prowl wouldn’t be so stupid to attack a party full of ambassadors, but Prowl and peace never did go together.

Had one ambassador (saving Princess Windblade, of course), been harmed, literally all of the representative states would have united to destroy the Autobot threat. It would have been a massacre. Starscream wouldn’t have minded, necessarily, except that there would be questions about what he had let in, exactly.

Starscream looked down at the unconscious princess in his arms and cursed mentally. He could feel how fast life was slipping away from her, and she couldn’t die before he had finished the terms of the treaty with Caminus. A dead princess would certainly put a damper on things, let alone that he would never fix the soil problem without her help. 

He was no healer--practically the opposite, in fact--but he knew basic first aid: keep the bleeding wound elevated, apply pressure, and hope like hell that it wouldn’t get infected.  _ That _ part, at least, was easy enough to solve. He snapped his fingers at one of his remaining Badgeless (and this was a good test for them--those who survived were his better warriors) and pointed at a still-intact bottle of brandy. 

The Badgeless obeyed while Starscream pulled off his sensible, bright crimson wool jacket (the finest wool in Iacon) and pressed it to the Princess’ wound. Silk was useless for treating wounds, and he intended to tell her so as soon as he got her all healed up. The Badgeless brought him the bottle of brandy, and Starscream pulled off the top with his teeth. He spat out the cork and removed his jacket to pour brandy over the wound.

The Princess came to life in his arms with a choked cry, and she tried to get away from him. He grasped her more tightly and put down the bottle, and when her eyes focused on him, he told her, “You’re going to be all right. I think.”

He had never had what Hook called a “bedside manner.” Still, the assurance was enough to get her to stop struggling, and she closed her eyes. He held her as he pressed his jacket to her shoulder, and he considered the chit. 

She had held up well, all things considered, but she wasn’t a warrior, not truly. That reminded him, where was  _ her _ warrior? He looked around and saw the bodyguard examining one of the Princess’ attackers, and he whistled at her in irritation. She looked at him, her mouth a solid line, and then she loped over to him, iron plate secured on her back. 

“What the hell were you doing?” Starscream demanded. He was always a little too sharp in the aftermath of a failed assassination, but he didn’t see the point in apologizing. Tending the Princess’ wounds was  _ not _ his job. 

“Looking over Windblade’s attackers.” The bodyguard’s face settled into creases of disquiet. “They’re dead.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

“No, it’s not--Windblade wouldn’t like to know they’re dead.”

“Because she has so much kindness and mercy, even for those who would have killed her?” Starscream snarked.

“No,” the bodyguard muttered. “She doesn’t like to use her life magic to kill. Ever.”

“Life--.” He looked down at the Princess again with new calculation. So  _ that’s _ what her power was. It wasn’t unusual for certain magics to mix, what with sex being such a wonderful thing that most people wanted to indulge in, and he had ended up assuming that her magic came from a blend of healing and plant witchery.

But  _ life  _ magic….that changed everything.

With the hand holding the Princess to himself, he put out a pulse of his own yellow magic, and her magic instinctively responded, turning the yellow spark orange. It hung in the air between them before it dispersed, and Starscream narrowed his eyes. He needed more information, and it was even more imperative than before that the Princess survive.

He rose up in one smooth movement and deposited the Princess in the bodyguard’s arms. “Take her back to her rooms,” he instructed. “I’ll be sending along my personal surgeon shortly. He can heal anything, and has. I’ll visit tomorrow to see how she’s doing.”

The bodyguard opened her mouth, but when Starscream turned on his heel to address another Badgeless, she subsided and left. The Badgeless trotted over, and Starscream ordered, “Get Hook to the Princess.  _ Now _ .”

The Badgeless snapped off a salute and fled. Starscream looked at the wrecked audience hall and finally allowed himself to curse the way he had  _ deeply _ wanted to for the past two hours, and then he told his guards, “Clean this mess up. Any evidence, you bring to Lord Ravage. The rest gets burned.”

His guards saluted, and Starscream stalked out into the gardens. Where was the damn door again?

He found it, mostly by fumbling (though he would  _ never _ tell anyone that), and when he worked his own magic, the door lit up and he went down the stairs. Metroplex was agitated, because the waters of his spring were sloshing everywhere. Starscream was a little surprised that his city wasn’t suffering an earthquake, but maybe it was. Just a tiny one.

“I’m about ninety percent certain she’s going to survive,” Starscream told Metroplex. “It’s more than a flesh wound, but she’s tough. She’ll live.” At least, that was what Metroplex wanted to believe, and Starscream was good at telling people what they wanted to believe. 

The Princess’ toughness, or Starscream’s expectations thereof, was something else entirely.

The waters calmed slightly. Starscream eyed the spring and the center of it, and he said, “I’m not walking on those waters.  _ She _ says it’s a question of faith, but it’s really a question of what you’re willing to accept, isn’t it? I’m not doing that.”

The water roiled, and then to his surprise, the waters parted to show smooth, damp sand. Starscream swallowed, but not one to allow an opportunity to pass him by, started walking. The sand sucked at his boots, almost like quicksand, but he stepped quickly. Finally, he climbed up the stone steps, and when he slipped and nearly fell, he had a sense Metroplex was laughing at him.

It was a little irritating, but it was comforting, too. Metroplex may have been a city, and therefore worthy of respect, but he was a  _ Cybertronian _ city, and therefore irreverent toward people in charge in the grandest of Cybertronian traditions. There was no need for Camien devotion between the two of them.

Of course, the only reason why he was able to get away with it in the first place was probably because of the Princess introducing the two of them. Maybe there was something to Camien devotion, but not in his practice.

Finally, he ended up near the top of the rock formation. He hesitated, but finally he placed his hands on it. The top part glowed in acknowledgement, and he said, “I think you should tell me about Life and Death, and just what you meant when it comes to balance between the two.”

The rock warmed up underneath his hands. 

_ Let me tell you about Solus and Megatronus Prime. _

\--

Waking up was a gradual process. First it started with hearing--the gentle murmurs of Chromia, Afterburner, and her ladies--and then senses. The heaviness of the blanket on her body, the grain of the cloth, and the slight breeze against her exposed face. Finally, Windblade blinked her eyes open and faced the curtains that blocked off her bed from the room around it. She pushed herself upright, her shoulder aching fiercely. “Hello?” she called.

The curtains rasped as Chromia pulled them apart. “Windblade!” 

“I hurt,” Windblade admitted quietly.

“I know. I’ve got hot bricks ready for you.”

“Sounds good,” Windblade resettled against her pillows. “So what happened?”

“What do you remember?”

“The party, the assassins, being choked...what happened if Lord Starscream caught me in his arms?”

“He got you stabilized,” Chromia said reluctantly, as if to give him any credit caused her to willingly lose a pound of flesh. “Then he dumped you on me, sent his surgeon, and vanished. He’s been gone since last night, no one’s seen him around.”

“I’m sure he’s around,” Windblade said. “How bad is my shoulder?”

“Surgeon fixed you up in a trice. He said he’d almost never seen such a straight cut.”

“Oh, good.” Windblade shook her head and felt for her hair. “My hair…?”

“I braided it, you’re good.”

Windblade smiled faintly at Chromia. “Is there a chance of that hot brick?”

“Bringing it now.”

The heat against her aching shoulder was a gift beyond price, and she drifted off again. Healings always made her tired, in addition to the residual pain. She hadn’t known anyone with her particular...problem with residual pain. Even her mother, more sensitive to healings than most, had no issue with lingering pain. Instead, her issue was that healings brought out her incipient exhaustion and she spent the five days or so after a healing just sleeping.

Windblade suspected it had something to do with her magic. Life magic respected, no,  _ relied _ on cycles and patterns. Even if healing magic was perfectly normal, how quickly the body healed in response was not. If she cared to, she could have it studied, but as Windblade rarely got hurt this badly, it was not on her list of priorities.

So decided, she slipped into full sleep again.

\--

Starscream surveyed the remaining attackers from the previous night. By his counting of the dead and the living, Prowl had spent nearly 40 lives on this failed endeavor, and Starscream was wondering just how much that had cost the Autobot cause. Perhaps Bumblebee could have justified it,  _ if _ Starscream had been killed and the Princess taken, but with the mission being an abject failure, Prowl’s standing with the moderates of his cause was in jeopardy.

There were only seven remaining. Two had committed suicide with death spells, but by the time the third one was attempting to trigger the spell, the Badgeless had fetched Starscream at a run. Prowl had never specialized in death magic, and Starscream was an expert at it. Unraveling Prowl’s death spells was easy, to his disappointment. All that time spent leading the Autobots, and Prowl had never gotten better.

Oh, they had all gotten used to killing. Surviving fifteen years of bloody war meant that the survivors were very good at surviving by any cost necessary. But Starscream had taken his talent and honed it into a weapon that the Autobots could never really match. Prowl’s genius was in organization and strategy; he wasn’t good at taking a snapshot and building immediate tactics.

Soundwave, in a rare loquacious moment, had called Prowl a “jumped-up quartermaster.” It might have helped that Skywarp had plied them all with the finest of Praxian silver liquor, but Soundwave was furious after the Praxian offensive and the liquor had just provided an outlet.

“Any last words?” he inquired. “Such as why Prowl felt it necessary to kidnap the Princess of Caminus?”

The seven remaining soldiers looked down at the ground. Their ankles were shackled to the floor with their wrists chained. Starscream had allowed them to keep pants and a loose shirt, but that was all he allowed them. It was better than during the war.

During the war, if they had been captured for doing what they had been attempting to do, they would have been chained naked.

“With your silence, the only words that I can offer to our neighbors are mine,” Starscream remarked as he examined his hands. The spiked knuckles he had worn during the fight had saved his hands from most of the damage, but there were a few light cuts on the top of his hands. “That the treacherous Autobots, still unwilling to accept defeat, attempted to kill the de jure ruler of Cybertron and the Princess of Caminus in a targeted act of terrorism. I, the Lord of Cybertron, along with the Princess, managed to put an end to the attack, but in doing so, the Princess was grievously injured. Until now, in my great mercy--.”

“Mercy?!” one of the soldiers burst out. “You call what you have done  _ mercy _ ?”

There was always one who could never remain silent when Starscream started to monologue. It was exactly why he chose to monologue. With one quick step, Starscream grabbed the speaker by the hair and pulled his head back sharply. “Yes,” Starscream said. “I call it mercy. Your faction cannot accept that it lost the people, and the people are the source of power. With what happened last night, I could easily raise an army from every neighboring state at the threat to their ambassadors and what was done to the Princess and wipe your  _ entire _ faction out.” He pushed the speaker with the grip on his hair, and the speaker screamed as he fell backwards and his legs contorted in the chains.

Starscream ignored that. “But I am willing to extend mercy. I want Prowl.” He looked down the line. “I want to know why he wanted to kidnap the Princess. Once I know that, I will create a plan to spare most of your remaining people.” He flicked dust off of his shoulder. “You all have families now. Children and partners. I understand. It’s what happens when a group of people live in an area for longer than nine months.” He spread his hands. “They will be spared. But Prowl will  _ not _ .”

“Like we can trust your word,” another one spat.

Starscream raised an eyebrow. “Is that your final answer? To say nothing and allow total destruction to fall upon your people?” He shook his head at his Badgeless. “And they say  _ I’m _ stubborn. Very well.” 

He turned to leave, and an entirely new voice shrilled, “ _ Wait! _ ”

Before turning back around, Starscream allowed himself a satisfied smile. Prowl must have been grasping at straws. Most assassins did not  _ have _ families to prevent conflicts of interest in times like this. Most of his best had to have died, for him to send one with connections. 

He turned around with a somber expression. “Well?”

It was the third one who had tried to commit suicide. He was frantic, rocking up onto his heels in an attempt to be seen. “He heard about her power,” the soldier said desperately. “That she can create life. He didn’t want her working for you. He wanted her in the Autobot camp, but if we couldn’t grab her, it was better to kill her. The Camiens would blame you, and then you would be deposed.”

Starscream stood very still as anger roared through him.  _ He _ would be blamed? In the attack that  _ Prowl _ had planned?

It would be easy to kill the messenger. So easy. But Starscream had spent the greater part of five years to be seen as his own threat instead of Megatron’s shadow, and killing one to make a point would only be retreading on Megatron’s ground.

Instead, he killed all of them.

The Badgeless shifted on their feet as the seven would-be assassins began to choke. As their faces darkened, a stench filled the air from their loosed bowels, and Starscream narrowed his focus.

Within a minute, all of them were dead.

Starscream turned on his heel to stalk out. “I want them buried in shallow graves twenty miles from the city line,” he said over his shoulder. “Cut their insignias off and make sure they get sent to Prowl. I want him to know how badly he’s failed.”

“Yes, sir!”

\--

Windblade frowned at her glass pots. The soil inside was rapidly turning grey, despite her best efforts. She was beginning to feel desperate--there was strong magic she could invoke, but she hadn’t wanted to. The toll for such magic would be high, and she was afraid of it. It was the type of magic that if you weren’t careful, it would consume you entirely.

And she wasn’t sure if it would still be enough. For something as unmagical as soil to be resisting her power--her power!--this much, there had to be something else behind it. She wished for some kind of priesthood that she could consult, because it was certainly religious, but the war (and possibly the Senate before that) had wiped out all priests of Primus in the area. 

“Windblade!”

Windblade turned around with a smile for Airazor. She hadn’t been able to talk to the Eukarian delegate as much as she would have liked the other night, and it was good to see her. They had gotten to know each other when Caminus had sent Windblade and Afterburner to open relations between their two states, and unlike Navitas, Eukaris was mostly land. Airazor had introduced her to most of it.

“Good morning, Lady Airazor.” Windblade adjusted her arm in its sling. “Forgive me for my lack of bowing.”

“It’s quite all right. Would you like to take a turn about the garden with me, or would you prefer to return to your rooms?”

Windblade eyed the amused glint in Airazor’s brown eyes and gave in. “I should like to sit down and apply a hot brick to my shoulder,” she told the other woman. “Would you care to join me? I understand that lunch will be brought up soon.”

“That sounds delightful,” Airazor trilled. She reached out to grasp Windblade’s elbow on her left side and began to lead her back to the palace.

“I’m suspecting this is more premeditated than it initially appeared,” Windblade remarked.

“Oh, really?” Airazor squeezed her elbow. “I can’t imagine why you would think that.”

When they reached Windblade’s suite, there was a box on the sideboard waiting for them. Airazor gestured for Windblade to open it, her smile blinding, and Windblade rolled her eyes as she began to take apart the bow. 

“Tigatron and I are still considering Lord Starscream’s proposal,” Airazor said as Windblade slowly unfolded the box. “He’s asked us to stay on as ambassadors on a trial basis for about six months, but I have no desire to spend winter here.”

“Airazor…”

“Yes?”

“Why did you give me a traditional costume for Ember dancing?” Windblade lifted the scarlet dress from its nest of tissue with appreciation for the seamwork in the crimson silk. The stitches were so small that she could barely see them, and like all traditional dancing costumes, it had no adornment, no embroidery. The folds of the skirt were meant to accentuate the figure of the dancer, not to draw attention away from them.

It was a beautiful dress. It would likely need to be taken in a bit, but Windblade could already see herself wearing it in her mind’s eye. She just didn’t  _ need _ it.

“Well,” Airazor said, “I found an Ember dancing club here in the city.”

“What?”

“Well, Tigatron and I were looking for some excitement, so when we found the club, we were just  _ ecstatic _ , really, it has such positive memories for us. It was how we met, at a sponsored Ember dancing competition, and--.”

“I’ve heard this story,” Windblade said patiently. As part of the cultural exchange between ambassadors, Airazor and Tigatron had taught her how to perform Ember dancing, which meant that Windblade had heard  _ all _ about their whirlwind romance.

Airazor ignored her, too caught up in her story. “It was quite the scandal, really--someone from his family asking  _ me _ to be his partner? I was almost offended, and then I saw his eyes and decided to give him a chance. We danced the night away, and I forgot about the silly competition entirely. I just wanted his arms around me. And we’ve been dancing ever since!”

“That’s very nice, Airazor, but why are you telling me about this club?”

“We-e-ll,” Airazor drawled, “I remembered how much you loved it. You were a little too repressed for most of the observers back home, but I could see how happy it made you. And I don’t think you have much happiness right now.”

Windblade drooped. “You always saw right through me.”

“Only what you let me see.” Airazor perched on the edge of the small couch in Windblade’s sitting room. “So what is the problem?”

Windblade sat down at her desk chair. “My experiments aren’t turning out the way I need them to. I’ve never had this happen before, and I’m a little adrift.”

“Is there anyone you can ask for help?”

“Not  _ here _ . If I was at home, yes, but there’s a disturbing lack of priests here.”

Airazor smiled faintly. There was a disturbing lack of priests in Eukaris as well. “So maybe you should go home and get the advice you need.”

“I don’t--,” Windblade cut herself off. Telling another ambassador  _ I don’t think Lord Starscream will let me go _ was a  _ bad _ idea. “I feel bad leaving a project unfinished,” she said instead.

Airazor shrugged. “It was just a thought. How necessary is this project?”

“Necessary.” If only it wasn’t, but…

“Then I’m certain you should go.” Airazor met her eyes. “It isn’t a bad thing to ask for help, Windblade.”

“I never said it was,” Windblade protested. “There are just...complications.”

“There always are.” Airazor stood and stretched. “I put the address to the club in the box. You’ll need it to be allowed entrance. For one night, my dear, why not dance your troubles away?”

“When you put it that way…” Windblade sat back in her upholstered chair. “You’d really want me dancing with fellow Eukarians, doing a native Eukarian dance?”

“By Eukarian standards, you’re utterly hopeless,” Airazor informed her with a wink. “But by Iacon-residing Eukarians, you would be...fairly good at it.”

“I do so love being damned with faint praise,” Windblade said brightly.

Airazor sat down again. “You can take it,” she dismissed. “Now, where is lunch?”

“I’ll have it brought up right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do love everyone's comments, and if you could send me good vibes, that would be great. I'm going through some personal snarls at the moment, and every little bit of positivity counts at this point.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love love _love_ all the comments. I've had my ups and downs over the last month, but your comments always make me smile when I'm not feeling like I'm worth much. 
> 
> For Windblade's ritual early on in this chapter, I would recommend listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xDyiYEdTp-U). I imagine that a lot of sacred music in Caminus would be similar to Western sacred music, and there are some truly beautiful examples of it. Schubert's _Ave Maria_ is one of my personal favorites.
> 
> Content warning for ritual self-harm and blood

**CHAPTER 5: THE FLEA**

Windblade stepped lightly over the smooth stones of the palace courtyard to her workstation. Moonlight glinted on the hinges of the sliding doors, and when she found an empty tabletop, she put down all of her materials.

First was the tourniquet, woven from the tough cotton that grew in Camien lowlands. Then there were the two glass vials, a small knife, a spout, and a bandage. She came prepared--she had no intention of dying to fix a problem that this particular kind of magic might not be able to fix anyway.

The glass pots were all full of grey, dead soil and she steeled herself before handling it. There had to be a _reason_ why it was resistant to life magic, even with the issue of magic overuse. Life magic was one of the most basic forces there was; it was utterly impossible to resist it the way this soil had been.

“Princess Windblade.”

Windblade dropped a pot and it shattered on the wooden floor. The glass shards meant she couldn’t whirl around the way she wanted to, but she seethed with irritation. “Was that truly necessary, Lord Starscream?”

“My apologies for startling you,” he rasped, his voice worse than usual. “But I see you wandering the courtyards at night, only a few days after an assassination attempt, and I get a little...concerned.”

“My thanks for your concern,” she muttered as she knelt to pick up the pieces. “But as you can see, I am hale and hearty thanks to the efforts of your guards, so there was nothing to be concerned about.”

“On the contrary,” as Windblade rose up with the bigger shards of glass held carefully in her hands, she saw Lord Starscream examining her short knife. “I see there is _much_ to be concerned about.”

Windblade tossed the glass shards into the general trash containment, spelled to keep magic within instead of leaking out. In a few days, the spells would have removed any trace of magic remaining and she could return the glass shards to the palace glassblower so they could be reused. “It’s old magic, my lord.”

His eyes flashed in the darkness. “How so?”

She found a broom to sweep up the remaining smaller shards and dirt. “Blood is one of the most powerful magical substances we possess, and blood willingly given even more so. I will bind my intent to my blood and put a few drops in each pot. It will make it stronger.”

“And why is this necessary?” inquired Lord Starscream.

Windblade could feel her temper slipping away from her, and with an act of utmost restraint, she reined it in. “Other methods haven’t worked yet,” she said shortly. “At such times, a sacrifice might be called for.”

“I see.” Lord Starscream looked down at all of her tools. “You’re going to need help.”

“I will?” Windblade asked.

Lord Starscream rolled his eyes at her. “I’ve had to be bled a few times,” he told her, “and it is infinitely easier if someone else wields the knife and bowl.”

“I can’t imagine you would trust anyone enough with that task,” Windblade snarked.

Lord Starscream considered her. “My brothers were up to it,” he said, and Windblade felt the temperature drop a few degrees in the room. It wasn’t good for her plants. “They had to be. Are you finished with cleaning up your mess?”

“ _My_ mess--!” Windblade started, but Lord Starscream shook his head.

“My time is valuable, my lady.”

As is _mine_ , she wanted to retort, but she was on thin ice with him. She had no desire to find out what happened if she fell through. She walked over to him and perched on the small chair.

“Which arm?”

“Left, my lord.” Her shoulder still ached. Less--it was manageable--but it still ached. “Do I need to show you where the vein is?”

“No,” Lord Starscream murmured. He tied the tourniquet over her upper arm and tapped the inside of her elbow. “Are you the type to look away when someone cuts into you?”

Windblade already had her eyes fixed on the open doors. “Yes, my lord.”

“Well then.” He passed a thumb over the inside of her elbow, and it was cold. She didn’t know what he had done, but when she felt the first flick of the blade, she swallowed.

“The a-assassins, my lord?”

“What about them?”

“Were any of them taken alive?”

“10,” Lord Starscream said as she felt the press of glass against her skin. “Two committed suicide while imprisoned. The rest were executed yesterday morning.”

“E-executed?”

“They committed a crime--well, multiple crimes. The punishment for any one of them would have been death, so. Yes, they were executed.”

“Did you find out what you needed to?”

“Yes, everything except what you needed to tell me.”

“You did not seek me out,” she said.

“No, I understand that you’ve had a difficult time in recovery.”

“I have, yes.”

“And I am here now. What do you need to tell me?”

She hesitated, but you do not argue with someone who has a glass vial pressed against a gently seeping cut to your arm. “I think that whoever planned it planned it more like an armed engagement than an assassination.”

“Why?” His tone had taken on that of a patient teacher; if he let her speak her thoughts, he might find her correct.

“Why attack out in the open like that? There were easier ways to get at me--or you, even. But by doing it as a melee, it makes us more vulnerable.”

“Doesn’t it also make it more clear that I had nothing to do with it?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “Or perhaps they wanted you to be seen as a victim when you weren’t. If you wanted me dead, wouldn’t it be easier in a situation that also put you at risk?”

“I don’t want you dead.”

“That much is clear.” The vials were exchanged.

“Really.”

“If I thought you wanted me dead, I wouldn’t trust you with a knife to one of my veins.”

She saw his teeth flash in a grin in the moonlight. “Fair enough, my lady.” He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded a little clearer. “Do you have anything else to add? Such as why they stabbed you with an axe?”

“I told the bowman I didn’t think he would shoot me,” Windblade remembered. She was starting to feel a little light-headed. “Or that they wanted me dead. That was when the axe came down. The bowman didn’t like it, he said something about Prowl not wanting me dead--who’s Prowl?”

“One of the leaders of the Autobot faction.” The vial was removed and the bandage was wrapped around her elbow. She pressed a hand to it as Lord Starscream capped the vials. “And?”

“But then the other said--,” Windblade concentrated, a difficult task when you’ve just lost two 8 ounce vials of blood, “Pharma. Something about Pharma.”

“Pharma?” There was an ugly note in Lord Starscream’s voice. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. He said ‘Pharma will fix her up.’ Does that mean something?”

“To me.” Lord Starscream rose to pace. “It’s none of your concern.”

At that, Windblade lost control of her temper. “I _beg_ your pardon?”

He turned to look at her, affronted. “Excuse me?”

“They attempted to kidnap me and nearly killed me. That makes it absolutely my concern.”

“It’s about Cybertronian politics,” he dismissed. “It was to incriminate _me_. You were merely a sideshow attraction to the main ring.”

“Merely--!” Windblade stomped over to him. The effect was lessened by her body swaying slightly due to her need for candied fruit and bread. “I nearly _died_ , and that makes me a, a _sideshow attraction?!_ ”

Lord Starscream narrowed his eyes at her. “You were intended to--.”

“I nearly _died_!”

“So? I’ve been almost killed by political rivals for years,” Lord Starscream shrugged.

“It is not my habit to be nearly killed in an attempt to implicate another political figure!”

“Oh? Then it’s a good time for you to begin. It means you’re getting somewhere. Soon you’ll go through attempted assassinations to prevent you from doing something others roundly do _not_ want, and then you’ll have really arrived.”

“Why are you making light of it? I deserve to know!”

“Deserve?” Lord Starscream repeated. “ _You_ deserve--?”

Windblade stood her ground, although the temperature had dropped again. “I nearly died,” she repeated, although she sensed that was not an argument that would sway the Lord of Cybertron. “If I’m going to be a sacrifice to your political alter, I deserve to know what I’m being sacrificed for.”

He reached out and grabbed her right arm, no doubt intending to make a point (at least he didn’t grab her left one, the one with the still-open wound), but he had made an error in grabbing _either_ of her arms.

He forgot that her recovery from her injury to her shoulder was still ongoing.

He yanked on her arm as he drew her closer to him, and red fire swamped her vision and made her scream. She sank to her knees as she clutched her shoulder, and tears beaded in her eyes. It hurt _so much_ , but she shouldn’t lose her composure in front of the Lord of Cybertron, that wasn’t--it wasn’t…

A hand was over hers, on her shoulder, and coolness was seeping from it to quench the fire of pain. She blinked streaming eyes into the intent face of Lord Starscream, and she asked, “Are you a healer?”

He shook his head. “Life is not my gift,” he said absently. “I thought your shoulder was healed!”

“It _is_. But…” she didn’t know how to explain it, but she had better try. “My body doesn’t _know_ that,” she fumbled. “It’s why it takes me longer to recover.”

He looked down at her, his scars silver in the half-light. She was hypnotized by the play of light and shadow over his face and how his scars deepened the concern-tinged anger that still poured off him. He removed his hand from her shoulder, and to her surprise, the pain was entirely gone. She would need to find out what he did, so that she could replicate it on her own.

He rose and began to pace. She had no desire to get up yet--no matter which arm she used, it was going to hurt. “Pharma is a healer--well, he possesses healing magic. He _used_ to be a healer. His name was touted as Ratchet--do you know who he is, the chief medical officer of the Autobot faction?--he was going to be Ratchet’s successor. Then suddenly there’s an epidemic at the clinic hospital he had been running, and in the ensuing investigation, it turns out that he was criminally negligent. That was the term handed down from the Autobot military police, “criminally negligent.” He was brought to Chief Justice Tyrest for sentencing, and all of a sudden, he disappears. No one knows where he’s gone. _My_ faction’s Intelligence can’t find a trace of him, and he was not someone we wanted to lose track of.”

“But now he’s with the Autobots again?” Windblade ventured.

Lord Starscream shook his head. “After the war was announced to be over, suddenly it comes out that Pharma is now Chief Justice Tyrest’s _personal healer_. That was a blow to everyone who cared. Ratchet was ready to commit murder over it. He had been the one to investigate Pharma, and word was that if one of his aides hadn’t stopped him, he would have killed Pharma himself without a trial. Chief Justice Tyrest indicated that it was Pharma’s sentence--he was too gifted a healer to be killed, but he couldn’t be trusted to be left alone. And he’s been Tyrest’s healer ever since.”

Windblade licked her lips nervously. “And now he’s working with the Autobots?”

“The entire point of Chief Justice Tyrest writing the Tyrest Accord and to be used as the judge over military trial proceedings was that he would recuse himself from the war. He had been aligned with the Autobot-supported regime before the war, but he agreed to be neutral for the Accord to work. For his healer to work with the Autobots now--it means that Tyrest has taken himself out of neutrality.”

Windblade couldn’t help herself. “But isn’t the war over?”

“It’s in a state of detente,” Lord Starscream said flatly. “It won’t be over until the Autobot faction officially surrenders.”

Windblade swallowed. “So it really was about Cybertronian politics.”

He glanced at her. “Surprise.”

“Well, if the Autobots had wanted to prevent Caminus from siding with you, they just caused it.” Windblade gestured to him to help her up, and he did so, thoughtfully grabbing her sides to hoist her up instead of by her arms. “I’ll tell Afterburner in the morning. All that’s left is to negotiate the trade agreements. I want as strong a showing of support as possible.”

“Well, _that_ is excellent news. I’m sure it will have the Autobots trembling in their boots.” Lord Starscream was smiling. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Now, what do you need to do with this blood?”

“Sprinkle a few drops into each pot,” she said. “Then I’ll, um…”

“Yes?”

She was grateful for the darkness as her cheeks reddened. “I’ll activate the magic.”

“And just how will you do that?”

She cleared her throat. In Caminus, it was totally natural, but outside of Caminus, it was a little...embarrassing. “I’m going to, uh, sing.”

“Sing.”

“Yes. There’s a hymn that will--can you please just sprinkle the blood into each pot?”

She could feel his amusement as she got to work. It needed a precise amount per each pot. If there was too much, there might be an explosion of growth, which would be good immediately and bad later. Her blood was a...jumpstart, nothing more.

Finally, she and Lord Starscream met back at the entryway. She had placed her empty vial on the table--it would need to be disposed of carefully--and turned to him. “You might, er, want to step back.”

“Your singing that bad?”

“Er. No. It’s just that after we set this place, Chromia put a protective circle in place with quartz crystals. It keeps any magic worked here from leaking out, which I am sure you can appreciate.” He nodded. “But um, part of my singing means…” she felt _wretched_ and got the words out in a rush. “Camien magic works through words and by singing it makes it really potent, so if you don’t want anything on your person growing you had better step outside of the building.”

“Growing?” he said delicately.

Windblade cast her mind for a suitable, _appropriate_ example. “Leg hair?”

Without a response, Lord Starscream stepped outside of the building. Windblade turned to face the glass pots, and she had to put him out of her mind. The only ‘real’ songs she knew were hymns in Primal Vernacular, and she was used to singing them in a choir of priests. Singing one alone felt...wrong.

She took a breath and began. She warbled on the first few notes before she settled into the song. It was a hymn to invoke life and warmth, and as she invoked it, she felt a warm wind settle around her. She turned a smile into the wind and continued, her voice going stronger as she felt the magic around her.

She urged the magic on, to settle into the pots and to seal into the soil. As the singer, she was unaffected by the magic she was creating, but she could feel it starting to take effect. It would take time for the magic to enrich the soil again, but she could feel it starting, and that gave her hope.

She wound down her invocation, and the combination of the magic and the blood-loss took its toll. Her knees folded for the second time in four days, and just like during the events of the assassination attempt, Lord Starscream caught her.

“Sorry,” she exhaled.

“Will it work?” He lifted her up, and she stared up at the ceiling in an attempt to get her head to stop spinning.

“I hope so. If it doesn’t...if it doesn’t, I’m going to need help.”

“Like what?” the ceiling moved until she was looking up at the night sky, and it just made her dizzier, so she closed her eyes.

“I might need to speak with the Mother Superior of the Temple of Solus. Mother Presidia could provide guidance.” She couldn’t stand not to know where she was going, so she opened her eyes again. The stars were very bright. “I could check the records. If she can’t help me, she can tell me where to go.”

“I see.” The stars changed to a soot-streaked ceiling and a scent of cooked meat. The kitchens? She was settled into a chair, and she watched as Lord Starscream worked around the kitchen. It had a modern stove, one of those ones that released gas and merely needed a light. Her eyes slipped closed as she heard the gentle clanking of pots and the sound of a knife on a cutting board.

A heavy something was placed on the table in front of her, and she opened her eyes to see a steaming mug that smelled heavily of cinnamon--a rare treat. She sat upright in her seat and wrapped her hands around the mug, just to breathe in the smell. She had fallen in love with the flavor and scent of cinnamon in Eukaris, where the main compound was hidden away in a copse of cinnamon trees.

“What’s in this?” she asked quietly.

“Cinnamon, honey, tea, and a bit of something extra. It’s what we would fix for Skywarp when he overreached himself--which was often.” Lord Starscream placed a plate with small slices of brown bread and equally small slices of meat in front of her. “He was a teleporter.”

She nodded and sipped from the mug. It was strong but sweetly spicy, and before long, she had finished the entire thing. Lord Starscream was placing slices of meat on the small rounds of bread and eating them, and she copied him. The meat was chicken, and the bread was spiced. “Teleportation? That’s a rare gift,” she mused. The drink had restored her, but she was still sleepy. “You and your brothers are quite gifted.”

“We thought so.”

Her sleepiness was overcoming her, and she carefully pushed herself upright. “I fear I will fall asleep at the table if I don’t head to my rooms,” she said with gentle self-deprecation. “I thank you, my lord.”

Lord Starscream shrugged. “You’re welcome, my lady princess.”

She stooped to pick up his hand from where it rested on the table edge. His eyes widened when she pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. “Thank you,” she repeated. “Good night.”

Her dress swept around him as she went upstairs, and Starscream looked down at his hand, a little flabbergasted. It had been a long time since he had had a companion for the night, and never had he had a partner with such...romantic notions.

He felt the press of the glass vial against his thigh in the pocket of his robe. “No, Princess. Thank _you_.”

He put the dishes in the sink for the cooks to manage before he returned to his workroom. He didn’t perform the types of magic that required a workroom, typically, but he had a deft hand with poisons, since poisons were nothing but chemistry. For that, he needed a workroom that shielded the effects of what he worked with from the outside world.

With a snap of his fingers, a small clamp formed out of ice. He used it to clamp the vial with the remaining two ounces of the Princess’ blood to the wall, and he found his own small knife. As he cleaned it, he felt Mau brush against the backs of his calves before the kitten jumped onto the table. “Be careful,” he warned the cat. “Don’t eat anything in here.”

All of his poisons were sealed, but that didn’t mean there was such a thing as ‘too careful.’ He had grown fond of Mau, and wouldn’t see the kitten die from accidental poisoning.

Mau chirped to him and watched him with those unsettling amber eyes. Starscream found another vial and nicked the top of his hand, and by clenching his fist, he had enough to run his test.

On a small silver slide, he dropped a little bit of the Princess’ blood and added a droplet of his own. Praying that he wasn’t about to blow up his workroom, he pulsed his magic through their combined blood. Her magic’s color shone under the deep red of their blood, and his own yellow magic turned their combined magic a burnt amber.

Then the silver slide exploded.

He lunged for Mau to shield the cat from the silver shavings, and he felt pinpricks against his skin. At least there wasn’t the usual noise associated with shrapnel; he could live with this if there was no corresponding noise.

When he looked back at his work-desk, the damage was limited was to the clamps, which were made of ice, anyway. He had learned his lesson about mixing his magic and expensive equipment from before the war, when he had inadvertently destroyed Skyfire’s collection of crystal test tubes. He had replaced them, but it was a hard lesson.

“Well,” he told the cat, who was blinking and grooming his paws. “So that was a bad idea.”

Mau looked up at him before going back to grooming his face.

In the corner was Skywarp’s bonsai tree. Skywarp had found tending miniature trees to be soothing, when his mind went so many places so quickly. When he had died, Starscream and Thundercracker had found themselves at odds with what to do with Skywarp’s miniature forest. Thankfully, some of the gardeners had been willing to take them, but Starscream had kept one, the one that Skywarp had started with.

Starscream had no green thumb to speak of, so the tree was dying. Starscream didn’t want it to, but he didn’t know who to ask to fix it without explaining why it mattered.

Growing things required a certain kind of death, too, so Starscream eyed the vials of his blood and the Princess’ blood. If he was going to experiment, it might as well be to his benefit.

With care, he combined more of their blood and dripped it onto the tree and waited. Minutes ticked by with nothing, and he didn’t dare use _his_ magic to stimulate the growth. Finally, after half an hour had passed with nothing to show for it, he nudged Mau out the door and got ready for bed.

He was disappointed. If Windblade in and of herself wasn’t enough, Metroplex had implied that the two of them working together, as life and death were supposed to, then they could have saved what they individually could not have. There was a lot of--for lack of a better word--mythology surrounding his and her magic, because it was so basic and powerful.

He had bought into it. He should have learned from Megatron--he had bought into Megatron’s mythology too, and look where it landed them.

Mau took up his customary position on Starscream’s pillow and had to be nudged away before Mau crawled back once Starscream reclined on his pillows. “Ridiculous cat,” Starscream grumbled.

Mau licked his cheek.

\--

Starscream woke to the sound of Mau scratching a door. He rolled over and saw that moonlight still lit up his floor, and he pushed aside his bed’s curtains irritably. “Stupid cat, I _know_ you can get to your box--.”

Mau was pawing at the door to his workroom, and Starscream stepped lightly across the floor--the temperature was beginning to change--to the small cat. He nudged the cat in the back of the legs, but Mau was undeterred. He butted his head along the door and mewed insistently.

“Would you stop making noise if it meant I opened the door?” Starscream inquired sardonically, shifting from foot to foot.

Mau only mewed louder, and in a temper, Starscream pushed the door open. Mau scrambled inside and onto the table that had held Skywarp’s tree. Starscream summoned some light--every witch could--and to his surprise, the tree was...there was no other word for it, _blooming._

The dead parts had fallen off the tree and there were new buds on every branch. He traced a finger along a bough and could feel the life pulsing through the branches. The soil felt richer to his fingers, and he understood that it took time for life magic to do its work.

“I think that proves what I needed to know,” he told his cat.

Mau purred, and allowed himself to be picked up and put on Starscream’s shoulder. Starscream tucked the kitten back into the blankets, where it was still warm, and he sat on the edge of his bed to pull on a pair of woolen socks. Once that was done, he went to the outer room of his suite and got a fire going.

Then he sat down and started to write.

Legal documents were almost a comfort to write at this stage in his political career. He had always been good at them--Megatron could speak well, and Soundwave knew what would appeal to the masses, but Starscream could _write_ and write _well_. He didn’t need Megatron’s charisma when his words did all the persuading.

He called on every last bit of that skill with this document. It was to unite two states and support trade between them, as well as acting as a marriage contract. Windblade needed some rights, guaranteed, and while Cybertron wouldn’t sneeze at a dowry, there was also the need for a bride-price, proof that even if Cybertron’s agriculture was (currently) lacking, that it could still support a Princess of Caminus and her lifestyle.

It didn’t matter that Windblade’s lifestyle wasn’t lavish. She would still need to be supported as if she was.

Furthermore, Starscream wasn’t against having her counsel in his Council.She would need to know her place, of course, but that could be negotiated verbally instead of in a document. He supposed she would like some concessions as well, not just Caminus, so begrudgingly he put in a bit to support bringing back the worship of Primus. He just didn’t want the priesthood to have the power to oppose him in any meaningful way--that was a problem from before the war.

The war proved the importance of the separation of church and state.

He wrote all night and into the morning, and by the time the document was done to his satisfaction, his hand throbbed and his fingers were cold. He would need to pass it by the Council, particularly Ravage, before he gave it to Afterburner, but he was content with it.

It was tremendously important that the Princess not see it before then. He thought he could persuade her, based on ‘strongest showing of support possible,’ but he would rather convince Afterburner first and let Afterburner do the talking for him.

Starscream nodded to himself. She could be worked like any other.

\--

Prowl stalked through the halls. Stray Autobots who saw his angry walking knew that desk-flipping and potentially even Autobot-punching was not far behind and fled from him. Prowl noticed it, like he noticed everything, but he assigned no significance to it.

He pushed open the double-doors to Pharma’s laboratory so hard they slammed into the wall. The physician looked up from where he was blending _some_ kind of compound and arched a brow. “If you destroy my laboratory, I will not have good things to say to you.”

Prowl ignored the warning. “Is it ready?”

Pharma went back to grinding down the compound with a pestle. “Soon.”

“ _How_ soon?”

“I was waiting for the weather conditions to be right.” Pharma gestured to the copper rod connected to the surgical table, and Prowl tracked how the rod went through the ceiling and beyond. “There’s finally enough of the right pressure to do it.”

“I don’t see why you couldn’t do it on your own,” Prowl groused, still angry. 40 of his men! Dead at Starscream and that--that _bitch’s_ hand. He had even borrowed some of Jazz’s remaining saboteurs, and now Jazz was angry at the wasted resources, Bumblebee was furious, and there was talk of a schism.

A schism! As though Prowl hadn’t protected the remaining Autobots with his life for the last three years!

“Because unlike _some_ ,” Pharma said tartly, although his eyes were starting to get that light in them that Prowl dreaded, “I cannot create life _on my own_. I require assistance.” He looked down at the body on the table. “Are you certain you want _this_ one?”

“I need his anger,” Prowl said for the eighty-fifth time. “He’ll be seen as legitimate when he uses it.”

“That might be all you get,” Pharma muttered before he put down the pestle and found a brush. He brushed the gray powdered compound onto the body’s forehead, hands, and feet, all places where the body was connected to the copper rod through copper chains.

In case something went...wrong, Prowl was taking no chances.

“I have to say,” Pharma said conversationally, “the body is in better condition than I expected.”

“I froze it after he died. Bodies can be useful,” Prowl said.

“Well, this one is.” Pharma bent over the corpse. “I can’t guarantee he’ll possess magic.”

“The fact that he will be alive will be enough.”

“Very well.” Pharma left the table to find the switch. The pressure from the oncoming storm outdoors made Prowl squint as Pharma cued up the lightning rod.

Pharma wasn’t his first choice of ally, but needs must.

“Here we go!” Pharma screamed with a mad cackle of laughter, and Prowl’s sight was blinded by the sudden flash of lightning in the small space, and he coughed at the onrush of ozone in the laboratory.

In the dark after the light had dispersed, Prowl saw the body sit upright, and triumph thrummed through him.

\--

“Chromia,” Windblade called. “I’d like to go before we’re old!”

“What are you talking about?” Chromia retorted as she strode through the open door while adjusting her gloves. “ _You’re_ the one still fighting with your cloak ties.”

Windblade made a face at her as her fingers fumbled with the button-loops. “I can fumble with them out the door, you know.”

“No, you can’t.” Chromia moved Windblade’s hands away and did up the loops herself with easy professionalism. “ _Now_ we can go.”

“Where’s Afterburner?” Windblade wondered as they exited into the main corridor of the palace. “I thought he was eager to get away from the palace for a bit.”

“He got dragged into a meeting with Starscream’s council, something about fishing rights, I think.” Chromia shrugged. “So it’s just us, I think.”

“Well, I do know that Afterburner finds my perusing of semiprecious stones to be, well, boring, so perhaps it’s for the best.” Windblade pursed her lips. She and Afterburner did tend to divide and conquer when it came to treaty negotiations, but the Cybertronians had been treating her almost like...window dressing during negotiations. Yes, she was busy with Lord Starscream’s request, and yes, this was the first time she had really gotten to have a day to herself, but she didn’t like being sidelined.

“That’s the spirit,” Chromia slung an arm over Windblade’s shoulder as they headed into the courtyard. “Besides, it’s been a while since it was just you and me--.”

“My lady Princess!”

Chromia growled quietly as they turned around to see Lord Starscream in loose grey trousers and dark red overcoat. “My lord Starscream,” Windblade bowed. “How may I be of service?”

Lord Starscream eyed her as he tugged on grey leather gloves. “Are you and your--herald going into the city today?”

Windblade nodded. “I wish to see the gemstone sellers,” she said. “I use several in my spells and I find myself in need of quartz and obsidian.”

“Allow me to join you,” Lord Starscream in the voice that meant it _really_ wasn’t a request. “The city can be...wild, and I would hate for you not to have a proper escort.”

The look Chromia gave Lord Starscream was pure poison, but Windblade couldn’t find a diplomatic way out of his company. She bowed. “Thank you, Lord Starscream, that is generous of you.”

He smirked and offered his arm. Used to this--it was a trend in Eukaris--Windblade tucked her hand into the curve of his elbow. “It is, isn’t it. So tell me, how is your experiment going? Did your final measure work?”

“Oh, I believe it is,” Windblade said earnestly. “The soil is growing darker with nutrients, and in a few days, I foresee we can use them to help our other soil samples until we have something we can begin to start planting in.”

“Excellent. How does quartz and obsidian fit into that?”

Windblade could always talk at length about her gardening work, and she was happy to do so if it meant that Chromia and Lord Starscream wouldn’t pick at each other. “Quartz amplifies the magic I put into it,” she told him, “and the obsidian keeps it from...leaking. Obsidian is a protective stone, frequently used on protection spells for people and places, but I can use untampered obsidian to keep my magic where I want it.”

“That’s clever. I prefer jet, myself,” Lord Starscream reflected. “It’s useful for what I do.”

Jet was a psychic stone, Windblade knew. Used properly, it could protect against psychic incursion and persuasion, but used _im_ properly, it could cause that which it was supposed to protect against.

“I hadn’t thought you could use gemstones for what you’ve said your magic is,” Windblade said as tactfully as she could manage. She suspected his magic was in more than persuasion--persuasion didn’t always work when you were surrounded by pointed, stabby metal objects.

“Gemstones are the true workhorses of magical assistance,” Lord Starscream drawled. “They can help out with _anything_ if you’re creative enough.” Then he winked at her, and she swallowed.

“Quartz is generally my go-to,” she said, unwilling to pick up the double entendre--if it _was_ one. “Obsidian and jade are others.”

“Not amethyst?” They were past the gates and beginning the slight descent down the walking path, and Windblade tripped over a loose stone. Before Chromia could intervene, Lord Starscream steadied her with his other hand on her waist, and she looked up at him.

“T-thank you, my lord.” His face was very close to hers, and she felt her cheeks heat. She hadn’t been this close to someone in a long time.

He released her when she had her feet back under her. “Why not amethyst?” he persisted as she shook out her coat.

“Oh, um--it gives me bad dreams,” she confessed. “I’ve seen a lot, and amethyst makes me relive most of it.”

“That’s strange,” he said as they ducked around the stopped carts, the drivers of whom were entirely surprised to see their lord walking around and were making sure to doff their caps, “because it’s always taken _away_ my bad dreams.”

“It works differently for everyone.” Windblade felt like shooting herself in the foot with Chromia’s small folding crossbow for the cliche, but thankfully he was distracted from what was no doubt a cutting response by the yells that accompanied his appearance in the main part of Iacon. Most were positive, but Windblade noted with some unease the anger that was also being unleashed. Chromia drew closer to them, her hand on her sword, and Windblade looked up at Lord Starscream.

“They don’t seem entirely pleased with you,” she ventured timidly.

Lord Starscream shrugged. “No one is ever pleased with you one hundred percent of the time. I’m doing my best. Yes, sir, I understand your issue,” he told someone who had come close to lodge a petition, “please send it to the palace and I will give it my personal attention.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The gemstone sellers were deeper into the market, and Windblade didn’t like how...enclosed it was, but with the wind carrying a bitter cold with it, the extra warmth from the stall hangings and the people around were welcome. She broke off from Lord Starscream when she saw someone with rubies, and she bent over them to judge them. “Chromia, look! I’ve never seen an uncut ruby with such fires!”

“Special price for the Princess of Caminus,” the seller offered, with the gleeful smile of charlatans everywhere.

“Really, how much--?”

“Swindle,” Lord Starscream drawled. “These are some lovely rubies.”

Swindle bowed. “Only the best for Iacon, my lord.”

Lord Starscream picked up one of the polished rubies and examined it. The torchlight from inside the stall sparked the deeper color from inside, and he hummed low in his throat. “Yes, very nice. Except there’s one small thing--I don’t recall signing a permit for you to _trade_ in gemstones.”

“Some opportunities move faster than paperwork, my lord,” Swindle said, and Windblade picked up the uncut ruby that had caught her eye, doing her best to communicate that she wasn’t listening, when in fact she _was_. “I put in the paperwork for the permit a week ago, and then I was given this glorious opportunity. How could I turn it down? I do pay my share of taxes.”

“And what would that be?” Lord Starscream inquired. “My gemstone sellers pay twenty five percent, but you would know that, having put in the permit paperwork.”

Swindle swallowed. “O-of course, my lord. Twenty five percent.”

“I do so _love_ it when my citizens are proud to perform their civic duty. Taxes pay for roads and the clinics and so many other things that benefit the city, and I would so _hate_ to have a reputable salesperson, such as yourself, be brought up on charges of tax evasion and selling without a permit.” Lord Starscream rolled the ruby between his fingers. “Especially since it is _me_ who hands down final judgement on such….wrongdoing.”

“Who else would do it, my lord? If there’s anything I can do to encourage your clerks to move my paperwork along, I would be happy to hear any suggestions,” Swindle said with a wink.

Lord Starscream put down the ruby. “Are you suggesting a _bribe_ , Swindle?”

Swindle was on thin ice and knew it. “Oh, no, my lord! Merely that the right word in the right place can speed things along.”

Lord Starscream sorted through the other gems almost carelessly. Windblade identified aventurine, topaz, and garnets, but there were others that probably indigenous to Cybertron that she couldn’t. “And why, precisely, should I wish to speed _your particular_ permit along?”

“My lord,” Swindle said with his hands spread out, “I’m a former Decepticon making my way up in the world, just like yourself. Isn’t that enough?”

“Former faction loyalty,” Lord Starscream mused. “A sentimental argument. Swindle, you _know_ I am not sentimental.”

“Of course,” Swindle said hurriedly. “But my travels take me everywhere, and I...observe things, as you well know.”

“And sell to the highest bidder,” Lord Starscream said.

“If you could help me out…” Swindle hinted.

Lord Starscream pursed his lips. “Perhaps.”

Swindle brightened. “And a special price on the ruby for the lady Princess?”

“You don’t need a ruby,” Chromia muttered in Windblade’s ear. “And you don’t want to be used in their ongoing whatever it is.”

Windblade blinked slowly in acknowledgement. “Not today, I think,” she told Swindle regretfully. “As much as I appreciate rubies in all their forms, I’m in the market for quartz and obsidian today.”

“Not even something small?” Swindle angled as he showed her a polished ruby, cut into a perfect sphere. It was small and could have been slipped into a pocket, and Windblade wondered for a moment if that was how Swindle...acquired it.

“It’s beautiful,” she admitted, “but not today.”

“She said no, Swindle,” Lord Starscream said, bored. “Do you have quartz and obsidian?”

Swindle wrinkled his nose. “Too cheap for _me_. I only sell _fine_ gemstones.”

“We’ll move right along then,” Lord Starscream said, taking her elbow.

“Why do you dislike him?” Windblade asked in an undertone as he led her deeper into the maze of stalls. “He seemed...fine, if a little pushy.”

“He’s a thief,” Lord Starscream said quietly, with banked rage. “He was only marginally a Decepticon, and he frequently deserted. When he was a quartermaster, too many supplies went missing while his pockets clinked too much. Now he has the _gall_ to show up in _my city_ and try to…”

“What will you do with his permit request?” Windblade looked up at him as he held up a stall hanging to help her inside.

“Oh, I’ll--make him an offer he can’t refuse,” Lord Starscream said. “Now, I believe you needed quartz?”

Windblade stepped into the stall, eyes alight with quartz crystals, both raw and polished and in all shapes and configurations. Chromia followed after her with a suspicious look at Lord Starscream, who leaned against one of the sturdier poles and watched Windblade examine the stones.

The first thing she had to do was ensure the stones had never been used for magical purposes before. When working in concert with other magics, her magic tended to amplify the other type of magic, which would be all right for green magic, but disastrous if, say, the crystal had been used for divination.

Then it had to be the right shape. She needed the crystals--the quartz, anyway--to have plenty of angles. The angles would allow her magic to ricochet within the quartz and build up organically, as well as vibrating with the same resonance of the magic above it. For the obsidian, that needed to be round, preferably spherical. The magic’s strength would remain the same, and any magic that attempted to leak would be stopped and absorbed by the magic in the obsidian.

Windblade pulled off her gloves to get a better sense for what she was doing and got to work.

Watching Windblade work with quartz was an...education. She was careful in how she tested each stone to not allow her magic to _enter_ the stone, but she was definitely testing to see if there was already magic. Starscream watched as she handled the stones expertly, to the clear relief of the quartz seller, and finally she had a small pile of stones.

The seller promised to package them while she went to look for obsidian, and Windblade handed over the money before moving on down the street. Something made her shiver, and she turned to Lord Starscream. “Are you feeling that?”

“I don’t--.” He felt it--a cold chill down his spine. Something had been altered in the fabric of reality, and it was _bad_.

“Windblade!” Chromia called, and Windblade instantly forgave her for the lack of honorifics in company when she heard the panic in Chromia’s voice. “You’d better come and see this!”

Windblade pelted out of the stall and around the other vendors to see what Chromia was seeing. She stopped dead when she saw the massive thunderclouds approaching, but there was no water in the air, only the crackles of static electricity and the sudden wind. Her coat flared in the wind and her hair started to escape her pins.

“What the hell is that?” Lord Starscream muttered in her ear.

“I’m not certain, but it is _not_ good.” Windblade shielded her eyes from the stinging dust. “I think something was disrupted.”

To her horror, she saw multiple vortices begin to touch down, and she turned to look up the hill. One was beginning to form near the palace, and she _knew_ it was going to destroy her work. She abandoned her bodyguard and Lord Starscream to run up the hill, and she ignored how her calves complained at the incline. Protecting her work was too important.

By the time she was at the top of the hill and through the gates, the vortex was coming down. The sound of it roared through her ears and overwhelmed her to the point she couldn’t hear anything but the shriek of the angry wind--and it _was_ angry, she could feel the anger that powered the windstorm, and she started to push her magic in an effort to soothe it, to engage, _anything_ to protect the fragile life in her workshop.

Two callused hands grabbed hers and pushed her arms to her side, and her magic died. “ _Don’t_ ,” Lord Starscream yelled in her ear over the wind. “It’ll just take you with it!”

He pushed her to the ground as the vortex moved and began to destroy the walls of her workshop. “Hold still!” Chromia shouted. “I got this!”

Chromia was standing, and her silver-blue magic formed a shield. Windblade shoved aside her distress and fear for the moment to grab Starscream’s arm and Chromia’s ankle and pushed her magic deep into the ground to help power Chromia’s shield and to anchor them. She ducked her head under Starscream’s arm and just _breathed_. There was so much rage in the storm, and she heard--somehow!--the hard _plinking_ of hail against Chromia’s shield. Oh Solus, what was that going to do to the exposed stalls of the market? There was going to be so much damage.

Chromia’s hands were starting to shake, and Windblade wrapped her magic around Chromia’s palms and wrists. The shield depended on Chromia, and Windblade could help power her magic. It was the only thing she _could_ do, and she hated that she couldn’t help more.

Lord Starscream’s hand tightened on her shoulder, and she craned her neck to look up at him. His eyes were utterly cold as he started as the vortex passing over them, and she took half a second to wonder what he was thinking. Then the tip of the vortex touched the top of the shield and Windblade screwed her eyes shut. Either they were about to die, or they would survive. If they did survive, there was no guarantee her hearing would return. She had never been through a tornado before, and it was _loud_.

Then it passed, and Chromia’s shield collapsed. Windblade withdrew her magic as Chromia folded to the ground, her brown skin ashen and her eyes glassy. Classic overextension, Windblade diagnosed, and she pushed Lord Starscream away to feel for Chromia’s pulse.

It was slow, and Windblade rested the tips of her index and middle finger against Chromia’s throat and trickled her own power into Chromia’s blood. It wouldn’t heal her, and certainly wouldn’t restore her magic just yet, but it would mean Chromia wouldn’t wake up with the headache and body pains from hell. She looked up at Lord Starscream, who still hadn’t stood up, and she yelled, “Could you take her to Hook? She’s going to need some basic healing.”

“And you?” His voice sounded like it came from far away, and she hit her ear in an effort to clear the ringing.

She met his gaze, hiding her aching distress. “I want to see what I can salvage. And you'll want someone with magic to deal with it anyway.”

“It doesn’t have to be you.”

She wanted to wail, but bit her tongue on the impulse. “Can you please take Chromia to Hook, please?” she asked more quietly than her shrill screaming.

Finally, _finally_ he left, and she stumbled to her feet to the wreckage of her workshop. She couldn’t pick out the glass from the hail, but the rapidly greying soil mixed with wood shards caused the worst pangs. She had worked _so hard_ , and now Primus was saying that her work wasn’t good enough. That _she_ wasn’t good enough.

Her bottom lip trembled, and she bit on it in an effort to keep the tears from rising. Princesses did not cry, at least not in public. She sank to her knees on a bare patch of ground and sorted through the glass and hail disconsolately. What had she done wrong? How had she offended Primus?

Her fingers brushed against a jagged piece of hail and she paused. There had been so much anger in the sudden storm, and the anger remained, but as she turned the hail over between her fingers, she had the sense that it wasn’t anger at _her_ , specifically. Something had happened to cause Primus to be so angry, and there were few crimes to cause that kind of reaction.

The knowledge settled her. She was still crushed and dismayed over her destroyed work, but at least it wasn’t because of her. She hoped, in any case. She would need to bring the hail to Lord Starscream and to see if he could feel what she did. He had felt the wave of magic earlier that day, when the fabric of their reality had twisted, so she guessed he should feel the lingering magic in the ice.

It did make her wonder--

What was that?

Windblade turned her head slightly to see the glint of _something_ in the pale sunlight through the clouds. She started to get up, her inner alarms starting to go off, and something lanced her cheek and thudded into the ground. She stared at the crossbow quarrel embedded in the dirt next to her, and then her instincts took over.

As more crossbow bolts whistled around her, she threw herself to the ground and curled up to make a smaller target. How many crossbows did the assassin possess? It took time to string the damn things! The white-hot pain on her face was disrupting her focus, and she was losing too much blood to be able _to_ focus.

Please, Solus, she prayed, I need help.

Solus was either keeping a closer eye on her than expected or Solus wasn’t against hijacking others for Her purpose, because she heard--felt, really--Lord Starscream was there. He slammed his hands into the wall with a creaking noise, and there was a wave of magic that made Windblade feel physically ill. She pushed herself onto her hands and knees, her stomach roiling, and she looked up in the fading light to see her would-be assassin fall three floors to the ground in front of Lord Starscream.

The magic around her intensified, and she got to her feet despite her nausea. Sweat was beading her forehead and she wavered, but she found an inner reserve of strength to stumble over to Lord Starscream’s side. “What are you doing?” she asked, unable to keep the hysterics from her voice. He was prodding the assassin with a foot, the assassin who was very much alive but trying to pretend not to be.

“This one thinks that by falling three stories is enough to make me think that he’s dead.” Lord Starscream hauled him upright by one arm--one _broken_ arm, by the assassin’s scream--and ripped an insignia from the sleeve. He passed it to her, and she examined the scrap of cloth with a poor embroidered shape of a sword.

“I don’t understand what it means.”

“It’s the symbol of Bruticus, a domestic anarchist group.” Lord Starscream dropped the assassin, who screamed again. “Its leader is Onslaught, another Decepticon like I was. Only he isn’t ‘was,’ if you catch my drift.” He crouched down next to the assassin. “So why is it that Onslaught wants _her_ dead?” he asked conversationally. “I know why he wants me dead, I’m a faithless piece of shit bastard, isn’t that what he says?”

“Yes,” the assassin croaked, “but he calls you a turncoat motherfucker too.”

Lord Starscream barked a laugh. Despite the affectation of joviality, anger and hostility swarmed around him, and Windblade’s nausea was spiking. For the first time, she was seeing Lord Starscream, the veteran of a war that by its end had no good choices. She didn’t like the glimpse of who he had been, because she was beginning to understand it was who he still was underneath the political intrigue and charm (such as it was). She was frightened, but she couldn’t look away either. “That sounds like him. So what’s his problem with her? She’s a colluding bitch?”

The assassin coughed, a wet sound that made Windblade’s chest ache. “If she dies on your watch, Caminus will invade.”

“I’m getting tired of having my potential corpse used to advance _your_ people’s politics,” she muttered to Lord Starscream.

“Don’t blame them,” he said in the most condescending way possible. “Cybertronians are used to death solving problems. Surprise, it only creates more and ones you can’t expect.” He stood up and nudged the assassin with his foot again. The miasma of magic that circled Lord Starscream suddenly sharpened into a single point, and the assassin started to scream and writhe. Windblade could feel how they were dying--organs were failing all over the body and the intestines were ripping themselves apart. As they did so, the fecal matter in the intestines and colon spread to the upper torso, creating sepsis.

And there was Lord Starscream, his eyebrows narrowed, and Windblade could see his magic now, the sickly yellow of pus. As the heart of the assassin finally gave out from the stress, she realized she knew what his magic was.

And she promptly threw up all over his shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens! Starscream's magic is revealed, as well as just how precarious his throne is. 
> 
> There are some trades that can be used to fund illicit activity more easily than others, and gemstones are one of them because of the inherent value we give the stones. If you get boxed in, for example, people would accept stones as payments. They retain their value (to a given extent). 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts! The nice thing about writing AUs like this is that I get to include all the juicy details that I love in historical and fantasy fiction, so I'd like to hear if you like these bits too.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this in the dead of night (my time) because I'm super antsy and anxious about something I'm waiting to hear about, so if you could send me positive thoughts and comments, that would be great. 
> 
> Triggers for panic attacks and memories of violence in this chapter, as well as discussions of depression. Chickens from the last few chapters are coming home to roost, and that means a mess.

**CHAPTER SIX: CONSEQUENCES AND CONNOTATIONS**

Ravage was waiting for him when he exited his chambers the following morning. She held the rolled-up document that was the draft of the treaty he’d written up in the dead of night, and he gestured for her to walk with him. “Well?” he demanded.

“It’s...not bad,” she admitted. “There are some parts I think you should revise, and I’m wondering why you were so generous with the Camiens, but it’s a solid treaty and contract. Are you sure you really want to wed the chit? You can have what you want without marriage.”

Starscream weighed how much he should tell her, but with his Chief of Intelligence, honesty was best. She would find out anyway if he lied to her. He opened his palm to allow for a swirl of magic, and Ravage’s eyes focused on his hand. She couldn’t see his magic, but she knew when he was using it. “She has life magic, and the city told me that life and death work best together.” He closed his hand and dispersed the magic. “Additionally, she told me she thought that Caminus should work with us for the strongest showing of support possible. What’s stronger than a marriage?”

“What I find interesting,” Ravage said as they walked down to the Council chamber, “is that she didn’t say ‘a marriage,’ but rather a ‘strong showing of support.’ Is it possible our dear princess is unaware that you wish to marry her?”

Starscream scowled at Ravage. “You needn’t make it sound so….lewd. There’s no guarantee Lord Afterburner would approve it.”

“ _Could_ he?” Ravage inquired with a quirk of her lips. “I would think that would have to be approved by the Mistress of Flame.” Starscream looked away from her with a slight smirk, and Ravage’s brows arched. “You _want_ it to get approved by the Mistress of Flame?”

“She’ll be wanting to go home,” Starscream said innocently. “To be advised. And I’m ready for a holiday.”

“Holiday,” Ravage said flatly.

“Yes. It’s time Thundercracker came home, and no one attacks Iacon in the winter. The bitter cold is too hard on a moving army. Besides, it might be nice to get away for a bit.” Starscream hid a smile at how Ravage was bristling.

“You think you can talk the Mistress of Flame into the marriage?” Ravage teased out the thought into what Starscream _actually_ intended. “Of course, that only works if the Princess is in favor of the marriage.”

Starscream pursed his lips to whistle quietly.

“You don’t intend to _tell_ her?!” Ravage glared at him. “How will that actually work?”

“Easy, really,” he shrugged. “Act like she already knows and no one will end up asking if she does. By the time she does, it’ll all be arranged.”

“Why do you want to trick her into marriage and use her own words to trap her?” Ravage pursed her lips. “That doesn’t seem like a good way to begin a marriage.”

“And you would know?”

Ravage stopped in the middle of the hall. “I know about _your_ issue.” She tapped him in the chest, slightly too hard. “I don’t think this is smart. You should _ask_ her.”

“I don’t want her to think this is political.”

“But it _is_ political. Whenever a princess marries someone else, it’s _always_ political.” Ravage peered at him. “But the point still stands. Why _her_ and why now?”

“Perhaps because it’s time,” Starscream said quietly. He owed Ravage the honesty--she had protected him when he needed it the most. “There’s a concern about the succession, after all, and no one of the survivors would ever…”

“So it would have to be an outsider. It helps that she carries political value and has complimentary magic to yours.” Ravage nudged him. “And she’s pretty.”

“I’d hardly noticed.”

“Hardly noticed how her robes cover her, of course.” Ravage rolled her eyes. “You might not be able to love, but you can certainly _love_.”

“Don’t be crass.” Starscream waited until Ravage had the door open, and then he entered his office to roll out the treaty to see where Ravage had marked it for revisions. “I hadn’t given a thought to it.”

Ravage perched on the edge of his desk. She was a true cat in that she never sat where she could perch or curl up. “It is necessary to the getting of heirs,” she pointed out. “And I shouldn’t have to point that out.”

Starscream rested his cheek in his hand. “I can assure you that I am capable.”

“She seems like the sentimental sort,” Ravage observed. “Seduce her and she’ll agree to your marriage proposal without ever needing to know it was a condition of the treaty.”

“Are we discussing the swiving of the Princess of Caminus or the treaty revisions?” Starscream raised his eyebrows at his Chief of Intelligence. “I know what’s more appropriate. Off the desk.”

Ravage shrugged and moved to the chair next to his desk. She drew it up to him and found a pencil. “So in regards to the fishing rights, I think it’s based on a faulty premise. It’s _too_ generous for too long a period.”

“It’s five years,” Starscream said. “If the Princess gets her way, it’ll take us at least that long to get our fishing industry to the point that it’s a competitor. I’ve deliberately left it open to be re-negotiated in five years.”

Ravage tapped her chin with the end of the pencil. “I still don’t like it. It could open up territorial tensions between our people and the Camiens, and it would be seen as us giving preferential treatment to the Camiens over our own people. I agree to your point about the time being what it would feasibly take for our fishing industry to catch up, but I think it should be amended to three years, with a more equal balance of preference for the remaining two.”

Starscream allowed that, grudgingly. “And the other one?”

“I’m not sure whether it’s a smart idea to bring back the worship of Primus. They were a source of support of the Senate regime, and people won’t have forgotten that. Remember what was said during the war?”

“‘15 years when Primus and his Primes stayed sleeping.’ I remember.” Starscream looked down at the treaty. “Camiens generally tend to be devout. I don’t mean to give them any political power.”

“If they have a large following, they will gain political power whether you want them to or not. Then you will be forced to make concessions you cannot afford. I do not agree with this.” Ravage tapped the parchment. “I think you should leave in on the verbal negotiating table, but do not put it in writing. Verbal promises you can twist, but not the written word.”

“Fair enough,” Starscream allowed. “I’ll remove it.”

Ravage leaned back in her chair. “You need to stop murdering people in private. Even if it’s an assassin from an anarchist group that, surprise surprise, is one of Swindle’s people.”

Starscream raised his eyebrows but decided to let the Swindle comment pass for the moment. “Is it murder if the Chosen One does it?”

“It’s murder unless it is sanctioned by law.” Ravage rolled her eyes at him. “You’re getting a reputation that you don’t want.”

“Under military law--.”

“Is that the justification you want to make publicly?”

“What do you recommend, then?” Starscream snapped. “It’s not like any graduates from the universities of law managed to survive.”

“There is one,” Ravage said. “Someone who has quite the respected reputation, as it happens.”

“No,” Starscream said instantly. “Absolutely not.”

“Rumor is that he’s looking for a different position since it’s slowly becoming clear that Tyrest is poison.”

“ _No_.”

“I’ll speak to him for you.” Ravage gathered up the document. “I’ll get the scribe to accurately write this and present it to Lord Afterburner tomorrow.”

“Ravage, I do not want him.”

“I’ll sweet-talk him. It’ll work.” Ravage squeezed his shoulder. “It’s for the best, Starscream. When you’re done fuming, you’ll agree.”

He made a face at her as she exited. She wasn’t _always_ right.

\--

Prowl tapped his fingers on his desk, unaccountably pleased with himself. At last he could end the schism between the Autobots, and while it rankled that it wouldn’t be due to loyalty to _him_ , it was still his actions that would fix the problem. Bumblebee wouldn’t dare go against someone who looked like Optimus, and the Autobots would unite again for a common cause.

The tapping of Bumblebee’s cane announced his arrival. Prowl stood with a grin, the first grin he had really _felt_ in a long time. “Bee! I should introduce you to someone you know very well. Prime…?”

Bumblebee’s cane clattered to the floor when Prime stepped out of the shadows. “Wha--how?” he croaked. “Y-you _died_.”

“Primus has blessed us with my return,” Prime said smoothly. “In times of great need, we are given miracles.” He spread his hands. “Will you not embrace your Prime?”

Bumblebee frowned slightly. Prowl felt a slight twinge of apprehension; Bumblebee had been closer to Optimus than he had been near the end, and he would know if Prime’s behavior was off. “Of course, Optimus.” He stepped forward, and Prowl hoped that Bumblebee hadn’t noticed how Prime’s eye had twitched at ‘Optimus.’

“This is a glorious day for the Autobots,” Prowl said.

Bumblebee stepped away from Prime, and Prowl relaxed. Prime had passed. “It is indeed.”

\--

Windblade rubbed her temples as her ladies carefully folded her robes and placed thin layers of paper between each robe in her trunk. “Are we on track to depart by the end of the week?”

Chromia glanced around the rooms, rapidly becoming bare in the frenzy of packing. “I believe so, barring any sort of major weather event. I’ve sent a messenger to ready a ship for us. I think Afterburner has a few more things to manage, but he’ll be able to leave with us, I hope.”

“Good.”

Chromia reached out to grasp Windblade’s elbow. “Won’t you tell me what has you so shaken up?” She straightened Windblade’s sleeve. “You’ve told me everything before.”

Windblade shook her head. “I’m still parsing what it means, and I’m not ready to talk about it.”

“But why--.”

“Lord Starscream is here,” one of her ladies announced. “He wishes to speak with you, my lady Princess.”

Windblade managed not to flinch. “Of course,” she said. “Please inform him that I will meet him outside presently.” She looked up at Chromia. “Continue packing.”

“I should be there.”

“He’d hardly do anything untoward,” Windblade dismissed. “Excuse me.” She smoothed down her skirt and exited the room. Lord Starscream was tapping his foot, and once he saw her, she bowed slightly. “What can I do for you, my lord?”

“I was informed that you’re leaving,” he said shortly.

“That is correct,” she said.

He waited, and when she didn’t add anything else, he grew angry. “You did not ask my leave.”

“I am not required to do so. I am an ambassador, titled in my own right, not one of your courtiers,” she said quietly. “Asking your leave is custom, not a requirement.”

Lord Starscream’s jaw set, and she waited for his retaliation. It would come, and then she would shout for Chromia and Chromia would get to vent her feelings about Lord Starscream by promptly punching him in the face, and then for the good of diplomatic relations, all of the Camiens would hastily be escorted to the coast.

It was a foolproof plan. Lord Starscream did not easily tolerate disrespect.

Then, to her shock, he exhaled sharply and asked, “Will you walk with me?”

“No,” she said automatically.

He raised one eyebrow. “Why not?”

“I--um--,” she glanced toward her closed door. “I have work to do. Packing and all that, it’s highly detailed--.”

“I’m certain your ladies are capable of managing it, are they not?”

Windblade writhed internally. To say no would be to admit she had an incompetent entourage, and to say yes would be to remove her ability to say no about whether to walk with him. “I’m packing up my spell gear,” she said instead. “I do not like to have my ladies touch my tools.”

“Packing that cannot wait an hour?”

Windblade scuffed her foot against the floor, the movement hidden by her skirt. “I suppose,” she replied, her reluctance showing in her face but not her tone. “What can I do for you, my lord?”

He offered his arm, and she took it. They had walked down the corridor and turned a corner before he asked abruptly, “What precipitated the departure?”

“Is that a question that requires answering?” She turned to look up at him. “Primus himself struck down my work. It is clear that I need to find spiritual guidance before I continue.”

“And the fact that I have death magic has nothing whatsoever to do with your decision.”

It startled her, how bluntly he owned it when before he had hidden it. Admittedly, she had hidden the true scope of her power from him as well (and had failed to do so completely, curse her soft heart), but she had a reason--she was afraid he would find reasons to keep her in Iacon when she belonged to Caminus. He had no reason to hide what his magic was from her.

Except for…”Not at all,” she lied smoothly.

He stopped and pushed her into a room. Gently--it wasn’t a shove--but he was still herding her into a room. He closed the door and turned on her with his arms crossed across his chest. “I would advise you not to lie,” he said. “You aren’t good at it.”

She set her chin and crossed her own arms. “I dislike your implications.”

“Oh, do you?”

Fear and impatience were making her edgy. “Why would you presume that your magic would be enough to cause me to leave?”

“Why _should_ I?” He drew closer to her, and Windblade fought the instinctive urge to back away from him. _Do not show fear_. “Let us begin with Exhibit A, that is, your truly spectacular performance of purging upon my person when you saw my magic at work.”

“I was overwrought and upset--,” she started, but he ignored her.

“Exhibit B. You have avoided speaking with me ever since you saw me work magic, and that has been over a week. The first official word I have had from you is an impersonal message stating that you were leaving by the end of this week.”

“I had failed and did not wish to face your--,” she said, but he again ignored her.

“Exhibit C. You are panicked by being alone with me.” He lifted his chin in what was clearly supposed to be a triumphant gesture.

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s all circumstantial.”

“Circumstantial evidence still paints a damning picture.” He moved so that he was within arm’s length of her, and she shoved down the impulse to push him away. “I don’t see where you get your self-righteousness from. Life magic left unchecked can be just as deadly as mine.”

“I _beg_ your pardon?” Outrage made her voice higher than she intended, and she winced before she could control it.

He tilted his head. “Epidemics. Weeds. Locusts. Excessive predation. Need I go on?”

“Whereas _your_ magic,” she fumed, “when left unchecked, can cause famine, starvation, dehydration, and--.”

“The worst thing my power can do,” he interrupted, “is kill them. Yours can leave them alive to suffer.” He shrugged. “And it’s not like you haven’t killed, either.”

She drew back from him. “No, I most certainly have not.”

“You have. I’ve even witnessed it.” He looked at his nails. “The two who attacked you with that axe? You threw them away from you. Where they landed, well,” he met her eyes with a slight smirk. “They died.”

There was a roaring in her ears. “No,” she said. “ _No_.” She turned her back on him and covered her ears as she relived that night. She had just wanted them away from her, because they had wanted to kidnap her and were willing to cripple her to do it. She hadn’t meant to kill them, she just wanted them _away_ \--

She had forgotten how specific she needed to be. ‘Away’ could mean so many things, and she had panicked and was in pain and her brain was foggy because she had been strangled, and--had she really wanted them dead?

_Yes._

She was turned around, and she looked up at Lord Starscream with streaming eyes--when had she begun to cry?--and her surprised distress was made complete when he crushed her to his chest. She was struggling to breathe, and he wasn’t letting go of her, was she a danger to him and that was why he wasn’t giving her space? What if she killed him too? Was that what she was doomed to be? Is that why her experiments failed? Were her hands drenched in blood?

She could hear Lord Starscream’s heartbeat through his shirt and waistcoat. It steadied her, and she closed her eyes and tried to match her heartbeat to his. It was a struggle. She still couldn’t catch her breath and her chest ached like she had been punched, but his heartbeat was regular--he wasn’t feeling her panic.

His arms were like iron around her back, but when she opened her mind, she could feel his pulse from his wrists thrumming against her shoulder blades. It matched his heartbeat, and between the two rhythms she could feel herself coming back together.

She knew she was all right when she could breathe in and hold her breath, and she pushed away from him. He let her go, and she frowned at the red-hot ache on her face. Gently, she patted her cheeks and felt claw-marks, and she looked up at him.

“You were starting to scratch yourself while muttering...things,” he said. “I thought it was worth the risk of making your panic worse if it meant you stopped clawing at your face.”

“I killed two people,” she said despondently. “Two lives have ended because of me.”

“If it makes you feel any better, they would have died anyway.” He helped her stand and then he brushed away dust from her skirts. “My people would have caught them and killed them.”

“They _died_ ,” she repeated, “because of my magic. My magic is meant to protect lives, not end them. It is a sacred duty that I carry--I do not kill. I will need to confess and be purified. Perhaps Primus’ anger was because I failed my duty.” Her breath was starting to come faster, and she was grateful when Lord Starscream seized her arms and made her look at him.

“If Primus means to punish you because you were defending yourself,” he said, “then he should have punished everyone caught in the war because we _all_ have blood on our hands. This wasn’t about you.”

“But what if it was?” she whimpered. “No one with life magic has ever been caught up in a war. What if it’s all because of me?”

He released her arms to grasp her hands. His hands were cold, and she shivered as she squeezed his hands in return. “Let me show you something.” His transparent yellow magic misted around their joined hands. “Join your magic with mine.”

For a moment, she wanted to argue. She had never successfully joined her magic to anyone’s--all she could do was blend it. But maybe he had a point, and deserved at least a chance. She allowed her magic to bleed into the space between his, and then with care, she touched his magic with hers.

Light flared between their joined hands, and her jaw dropped at the brilliant carnelian light that circled their hands. It wasn’t pure life _or_ death--it was instead the magic of possibility, and the contact made her dizzy. Is that what healers felt when they worked together? she wondered as she glanced up at him. This sense of determined euphoria, that together they could solve anything?

“I think,” Lord Starscream murmured, as though he didn’t want to ruin the significance of the moment by speaking above a whisper, “that the true tragedy of Cybertron took place when life and death fell out of step with each other. In our history, witches have showed up with one or the other, but they’ve never existed in the same time and place together. For the first time in generations,” his hands tightened on hers, “we’re here at the same time. I don’t think that Primus was punishing you, but I do think that you’re here for a reason.”

She started to nod, still captivated by the magic between them. It didn’t matter in that moment that she suspected Lord Starscream was an atheist or that witches with their power had existed without balance before them. What mattered was the magic _now_ , and if they worked together, maybe she could do what she hadn’t been capable of before. Life _needed_ Death, because Death was a boundary.

She had forgotten that.

Lord Starscream allowed the magic to dissipate, and shadows settled on them again. He still held her hands, and his skin was warmer than it had been. “So will you stay until I can go with you?” he asked. “My brother is coming to act as my regent, and I would like to formally request guidance alongside you.”

She nodded. “Y-yes, my lord. I will be happy to do so.”

He smiled faintly. “Excellent.” He kissed the top of her hands, and her skin tingled at the contact.

He released her hands only to wrap an arm around her waist and towed her from the room. “I’m glad that’s settled,” he said. “And--I apologize.”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing to forgive.” That wasn’t exactly true, but the failure was on her part, not his, for not knowing that she had killed in defense of her own life.

As they rounded a corner, Afterburner was coming from the opposite direction with his brow knotted. He held a scroll in one hand and waved down Lord Starscream with the other. “Lord Starscream, I have some questions.”

“Perhaps I can answer them.” Lord Starscream stopped them in front of her door and picked up her hand to kiss the top of it again. She flushed and looked down. “She said yes, my lord.”

Afterburner looked at her, surprised. “You did?”

She nodded. “I think we will work well together, so I said yes.” She smoothed down her skirts. “It is the necessary thing to do.”

“Your mother will still have to approve,” Afterburner warned. “It will need to be brought to her directly.”

“Oh, I can’t think of why Mother wouldn’t agree,” Windblade protested. “She understands that I am where I am called to be.”

Afterburner considered her. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “Lord Starscream, might we discuss the rest in your office? I think the Princess has work to do.”

“I will see you at dinner,” Lord Starscream told her. “Lord Afterburner, my time is yours.” He strode off, and Windblade covered her cheeks with her hands. She was only flushed because the physical affection was unexpected from Lord Starscream, she told herself. Nothing more, nothing less.

\--

Jazz drifted over to Bumblebee in the introduction ceremony for the remaining Autobots to be introduced, “re-introduced”, to Prime. “You don’t seem happy, my friend,” Jazz said as he clapped a hand on Bumblebee’s shoulder.

Bumblebee shrugged him off. “Prowl is lying to everyone.” He pinned a smile to his face as Prowl stopped so that the audience could cheer, but he said through his teeth to Jazz, “that’s _not_ Optimus.”

Jazz’s own smile didn’t flicker, but he looked down at Bumblebee. “You’re sure?”

“I might not have magic like you lot,” Bumblebee’s irritation was at odds with his serene expression, “but I _do_ know what Optimus felt like. He was--warmth, safety. This Prime, whoever the hell he is, is a damn sight more hostile.”

“Optimus mighta come back wrong.”

“He didn’t know who I was,” Bumblebee punched a fist in the air as the cheers grew louder. “He needed Prowl to tell him who I was.” He looked up at Jazz. “No matter what happened to Optimus, he always knew who I was.”

Jazz chewed on his bottom lip as he applauded. Prowl gestured for quiet and Jazz leaned his arm on Bumblebee’s shoulder, apparently entirely at ease. “So who is he?”

“Not sure,” Bumblebee admitted, “but I’m pretty sure he’s a Prime. Just don’t know which one. It’s why Prowl refers to him as ‘Prime.’”

“And since Prowl called Optimus ‘Prime’ whenever they were in public, no one thinks it’s weird.” Jazz rooted through one of his pockets for a smoke. He found it and lit it, making sure to blow smoke away from Bumblebee’s face.

“You know something,” Bumblebee accused.

“A little bird told me that Prowl had Pharma working on something top-secret and out of sight. Most Autobots wouldn’t be happy to know that the disgraced doctor of Delphi was working so close to our esteemed leader. I could circulate it, quiet like. See who wants to leave and who wants to stay.”

Bumblebee gnawed on his thumb nail. “I want our people safe. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. And I don’t like the timing of Prowl having Prime back, like Optimus never died, so close after the failed assassination attempt.”

“Prowl wants to bring this protracted comedy to its finish,” Jazz murmured in Bumblebee’s ear as cheers erupted again. “But for him, the only way it could ever end is with Starscream dead.”

“He’d let his hatred override his concern for his people,” Bumblebee whispered. “Say that too. Prowl’s obsessive, and he’s never been able to let this one go. Once we have a rough count of the numbers, we can start to get people out. Small groups first, with children. Once Prowl realizes there’s an exodus, he’ll clamp down. We need to get the sparklings out first.”

“Got it, boss.”

Bumblebee half-heartedly shoved Jazz’s shoulder. “I’m not your boss.” He looked up where Prowl was addressing the crowd. “I don’t want to be anyone’s boss. I don’t like the mortality rate.”

“Might not have a choice,” Jazz said cheerfully. “I’ll spread the word around, see what I can find out.” Jazz disappeared into the crowd, and Bumblebee tucked his cane under his arm to clap.

He couldn’t see the full outline of Prowl’s plan, but he knew it wasn’t going to be one he liked.

\--

Starscream opened the door to his rooms distractedly. He was reading through a letter one of Ravage’s sources had sent about certain Autobot movement, and the spy hadn’t gotten specific details, but the general ones were enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He checked his rooms’ defense spells automatically, and relaxed when they hadn’t been disturbed. He returned to the letter as he lit a candle, and he frowned as he got deeper into it. The Autobots were massing far to the north, but in lower numbers than the projections had put their population at. Had they removed the parents and children? Surely not _all_ the parents. They still needed their warriors.

“The next time,” Thundercracker said, “someone tries to say that you’re a lazy leader who lives off his people like a parasite, I’m going to tell them that you were so invested in reports that you failed to notice your brother waiting for you.”

Starscream reacted on instinct--he dropped the letter and threw the candle like it was a knife. Sadly the candle lacked the weight and balance of a knife, and so dropped onto his entirely flammable wool bedspread instead of striking his brother.

Thundercracker snapped his fingers, and with a rumble, a small raincloud appeared to douse the flames. He got up from the bed and drew the bedspread off to drape it on one of the chairs. Thankfully, the flames hadn’t done much more than scorch the embroidery, and Thundercracker left it alone to approach his brother. “Since when don’t you pay attention to your surroundings?”

“Since my defense spells didn’t warn me there was an intruder,” Starscream retorted. He eyed his brother. “You’re here so little that I thought nothing of tying my blood to the spells. Clearly I will need to be more specific in the future. How the hell did you get here so fast?”

Thundercracker shrugged. “Someone owed me a favor.” He wandered over to the sideboard. “Still only drinking water and tea?”

“I occasionally touch fruit juice,” Starscream said. “But you won’t find that here.”

Thundercracker shrugged as he poured himself some water. He turned to look at Starscream. “So gossip is that you’re going to have that pretty Camien to wife.”

It was Starscream’s turn to shrug. “Her magic’s useful and she needs a project to feel like she’s worth something. Cybertron’s full of projects.”

“Right,” Thundercracker said, entirely unconvinced. He flopped down in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace, and Starscream used another candle to light the wood. “Have you told her about your little problem yet?”

“I fail to see how it’s relevant.”

Thundercracker snorted. “Eukaris and Navitas adore her, and they’re more than happy to talk about why. She’s a sentimental creature, and you fail to see how your little problem isn’t relevant?” He tapped his chest. “If you two really do have complementary magic, you think you can get away with not telling her?”

“What do you want from me?” Starscream groused. “She can barely accept that I have death magic. You really want me to tell her that I’m cursed?”

“Here’s something interesting,” Thundercracker said in a non-sequitur. “Her family’s full of fire elementals--her mother and her sister are pure fire witches, while her brother can command flame but can’t summon it. Can she work with fire?”

Starscream rolled his eyes. “You are painfully transparent.”

“So that’s a yes.” Thundercracker leaned forward to rest his chin in his hand. “Maybe you didn’t tell her about the curse because you don’t think it’ll matter.”

“You’ve been talking to that mind healer too much,” Starscream dismissed. “I’ve lived with the curse for this long. I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Thundercracker said soberly. “It was the dying act of an enraged man who wanted to you in as much pain as you could be even after he was gone.”

Starscream stilled. “There’s been no point in trying to break it. I wasn’t sentimental before the curse. Why should I be after?”

“Your grief for Skywarp turned off after the curse,” Thundercracker said. “It was like you couldn’t feel it anymore, and you were impatient with me for continuing to grieve. I know you can compartmentalize, but this was something else.” His eyes were steady in the firelight. “I know you can feel anger--you’ve always felt that--but can you feel anything like happiness or contentment anymore? You dread waking up every day. That is not normal.”

“What do you _want_ , Thundercracker?” Starscream snapped. “Otherwise this conversation is useless.”

“I want to meet her. In my own way, without all the pomp. I want to get her measure without her knowing who I am.”

“We do look alike,” Starscream said acidly.

Thundercracker grinned. “I’m more handsome than you.”

“That’s a matter of opinion. Very well, I can forego the official welcome for two days. Is that adequate?”

“Yes.” Thundercracker waggled his empty cup. “Any chance of a real drink?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Starscream snarked. “Drunkard.”

“Teetotaler,” Thundercracker retorted.

\--

Windblade wandered through the dim art gallery. She and Chromia were supposed to go to the Ember dancing club that night--she was even dressed for it--but Chromia had gotten a spell of sickness at the last minute, and so Windblade explored the palace. She was fairly certain she was lost, but there were no courtiers to pester her or servants to inquire as to her every whim. It was pleasant not to be the princess for once.

The silk of her full skirts rustled around her legs. She wasn’t used to having such movement in her skirt, but she thought she could get used to it. For a moment, while no one was around, she twirled to enjoy how the skirt flew out around her. She smiled to herself--Airazor knew her better than Windblade had given her credit for.

The art gallery opened into a ballroom, a far larger one than the one that had held the reception for the visiting Ambassadors those weeks ago. The windows were nearly floor-to-ceiling, and she wondering how the glass had remained intact through fifteen years of civil war. The wood was polished until it shone, and she stepped into the room with hushed reverence. The room had once been full of life, but it had been a long time since then.

The soles of her shoes made a soft _shush_ against the floor, and she hummed to herself as she walked the steps to something like the Ember, but it was slower and in ¾ time, not 6/8 time. It was nice to imagine another noble who knew what they were doing and that they knew just how to hold her to dance. Oh, she had had partners in the past, but they were momentary. She wanted someone to partner with her always.

Her humming became a little louder as she closed her eyes and imagined. Her preferred partner was taller than her, with strong features and sharp eyes. Their hands would be callused but not peeling, and when they turned, there would be the pleasant press of flesh against flesh.

“A lady shouldn’t dance alone.”

Windblade dropped her arms in the parody of a dance partner and clapped her hands to her scarlet cheeks. A gentleman--there was no other word that fit--was stepping into the hall. He fiddled with a silver locket, and it almost looked like a pocket watch. He was winding up the top as he approached her, and she bowed hurriedly. “Forgive me, sir, for disturbing you.”

“There’s no disturbance when a pretty lady clearly wants to dance.” He wore a deep blue robe buttoned over full black trousers, with a white belt loosely tied over the robe. He hooked the locket to the white belt and offered his hand to her. “Unless you were in a trance…?”

She shook her head. “No, but I was exploring and then I got caught up in the history of this place.”

“Ah yes,” he said distantly. “The _history_.”

“This hall, centuries ago, was used to celebrate and memorialize all stages of life--births, comings of age, engagements, marriages, deaths...then it became used for death and death alone, and now it is empty,” she said. “It misses the life.”

The gentleman gave her a faint smile. “We could summon a bit for now.”

She smiled back at him. “That would be acceptable, sir.” She took his hand and he opened the locket. A quiet hum came from it until it solidified into a definite song, and she allowed him to sweep her away.

\--

“I’m so grateful you finally found the time to answer my summons,” Starscream snarked as Swindle entered the room in front of Ravage. “It’s only been a week.”

“There was nothing in your note to imply haste,” Swindle protested. “It said _at your earliest convenience._ ”

“Any fool knows that means as quickly as possible,” Ravage hissed. “Sit.”

Swindle sat down abruptly. “What can I do for you, my lord?” he said, giving Starscream a wheedling smile. “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

Starscream placed a cloth patch on the desk and pushed it over to Swindle. Swindle took it and looked it over. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

Ravage snarled deep in her chest, and Starscream gestured for her to be quiet. “I had occasion to talk to my clerks in regard to your sales permit,” Starscream said. “Part of that paperwork, especially for gem sellers, is to identify where those items came from so we can know that they were...correctly sourced,” he made a face, “and that their sale is not to fund groups that would plot against the peace that has been so hard won. You have not listed the location of where your gems are sourced, which made our clerks pause and was a significant reason for why your paperwork was frozen. Then when you did not respond to the _three_ notices they sent, well...there were some flags.”

“Is there a problem?” Swindle inquired.

Starscream ignored that. “So I asked a few Intelligence officers to try to source where you got your uncut rubies, and to my surprise, they found that they are a very specific type of ruby only found in western Cybertron, and that same area is where--why don’t you take it from here, Ravage?”

“That area is where the Bruticus group has been based for the last five years,” Ravage said coldly. “And your lack of reporting for where you get your rubies would make one think that perhaps the Combaticons source you with your gems in exchange for a percentage of the sales.”

Swindle raised his eyebrows. “That’s all theory, madam--.”

“ _You will call me sir._ ”

“That is all theory, _sir_. I wasn’t sure if your clerks were taking bribes or not so I did not want to have it on paper where I get my gems in case other sellers try to get in on it. I have a right to make a profit,” Swindle twinkled at Starscream, having fallen into the trap of the good-inspector, bad-inspector. They were _both_ bad inspectors.

“Well, it’s not exactly a theory,” Starscream said easily. “Considering we got this patch off one of your workers.”

Swindle tensed. “Since when an employer responsible for what an employee does in their spare time?”

“Since that employer doesn’t bother to search for said employee when that employee goes missing. It almost looks like that employer knew where the employee went and was not concerned.”

“That’s suppositional. All you have is a patch from one of my workers. There’s no link to me.”

Starscream rested his chin in his linked hands. “I would agree with you except for one thing. I took this case and presented it to the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, Ultra Magnus. I asked him if I had enough of a case to arrest you.”

Swindle was utterly still.

“He said that I did,” Starscream said. “So I am wondering what you are willing to offer me to keep from being arrested and touting your crimes to the country at large.”

Swindle didn’t move a muscle as he clearly thought through Starscream’s offer, and Starscream decided to up the ante. “Ravage, why don’t you introduce Swindle to our cells? I’m sure he would find them interesting.”

Ravage grinned, an expression that showed off the points of her canines. “Oh, _happily_.”

“Wait--I mean--wait!”

Starscream waved a hand. “Oh, I’m sure you’re helpful now. But you’ll be even _more_ helpful after two days in the cells.” He nodded at Ravage, who was ecstatic to drag Swindle off. Whether Swindle had a real lead for the Combaticons was negligible, but it was more important to get Swindle to inform on the true source of his gems. Gemstone sales were one of the most secure ways to fund anti-government groups, and gem sourcing were one of the ways to keep gemstone sales honest.

Starscream didn’t mind being called a tyrant as long as the only people harmed were people who wished to do harm in the first place.

He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. He still had more work to do, but it was a start.

\--

At first, Windblade’s partner was cautious. They were both figuring out how skilled they both were and what tricks they could perform. Once he discovered she knew more about dancing than just how to hold her partner’s hand and move in time, they were _really_ off.

She laughed and clutched his arms as he swung her around, and she wished for a moment that her hair was loose so that it could sweep with her. “I’m beginning to wonder where you learned,” she said, her cheeks pink with exertion and good humor.

“Here and there,” he was only a _little_ breathless. “Places that didn’t take me seriously until I learned some of the local custom.”

She giggled as her skirt nearly tangled up in their legs. “Oh, I know that feeling. It was like if you couldn’t move your feet in a specific pattern--.”

“Then you weren’t worth talking to,” he said. “Is there dancing like this in Caminus?”

Up until that moment, it hadn’t bothered her that she didn’t know his name. He looked a little like Lord Starscream--they had similar noses--but she had written that off. Now she refocused on him. She hadn’t seen him before, but then again, the Princess of Caminus was recognizable, thanks to her tattooes.

“Not really,” she said vaguely. “There’s performative dancing, but not dancing for social purposes.” Certainly not for courtship purposes. That was what long walks were for.

“So you only learned it when it became necessary for diplomacy?”

“And I discovered I had a talent for it.” She inclined her head to him. “And you?”

“I’ve always liked to move my feet,” he said comfortably. “I was just glad to discover it could have actual purposes beyond me contorting my body in odd shapes.”

Windblade bit her lip to keep from giggling again. “Well, I’m glad that you found it to be useful.”

The charmed locket wound down into silence, and the gentleman let her go. He bowed deeply, and she curtsied. The skirts were so wide that when she curtsied, the skirts created a perfect circle around her. He helped her rise and kissed the top of her hands. “Thank you, my lady princess.”

“May I know your identity, sir?” she asked in as teasing a manner she dared. “I typically like to know my partners’ names.”

“You can call me Thundercracker, good lady.” He flashed a grin at her.

She paled. “Lord Starscream’s brother, Thundercracker?”

“So he speaks of me!” Thundercracker tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “I had wondered. Shall we go bother him?”

“I shouldn’t like to,” she said nervously. “What if he wouldn’t like to be bothered?”

“Oh, ignore him. He gets blustery without a bite.” Thundercracker towed her along. They exited the ballroom and he took her along hallways she didn’t know, and she was almost afraid. She didn’t know Thundercracker well, and she couldn’t navigate these particular corridors. Her trepidation rose when the corridors were dim, and Thundercracker stopped to look at her. “I promise you, Your Highness, you’re safe with me,” he said quietly. “You will come to no harm with me.”

She swallowed. “Was I that obvious?”

“I can understand your fear. Starscream’s office isn’t too far from here. He keeps the lights dim in the nonessential corridors to keep down candle costs.” They started walking again, and he looked up at the ceilings. “Don’t Camiens have a special kind of light, or something?”

“We make a special kind of glass that holds light and heat,” Windblade said absently. “But it requires magic.”

“Well, _obviously_.”

She hid a smile. “I don’t know precisely how it’s done. I can get the instructions when I return to Caminus.”

“I’ve heard wonders of Camien engineers,” Thundercracker said. “You think you could bring them with you?”

Windblade considered it. “I know a few that might be willing to emigrate for the right incentive,” she admitted. “I can propose it.”

“Excellent.” Thundercracker steered her into a brighter hallway. She recognized Lord Starscream’s office door, and Thundercracker didn’t bother to knock before he threw the door open.

Inside, Lord Starscream straightened in his chair with a scowl, which smoothed out into a slightly welcoming, otherwise blank look at the sight of Windblade. “Thundercracker,” he complained, “I was having a moment.”

“And now that moment’s over.” Thundercracker urged Windblade into the seat across the desk from Lord Starscream before pulling up the third one in between them. He reached out with his foot and closed the door, and as he straightened he brought out a pack of playing cards. “Do you play cards, Your Highness?”

“Occasionally, and very poorly,” she admitted. “I’m a dreadful gambler.”

“Then we won’t play for high stakes.” Thundercracker started to shuffle. “I’ll wager Tarn versus Caminus versus…” he looked inquiringly at Starscream, who shrugged.

“Altihex?”

“Altihex! Perfect.”

“I fail to see how these are not high stakes…?” Windblade asked, a little afraid there was a joke she was missing and upon saying that, that the joke would be turned on _her_.

“Oh, it’s not _real_ stakes,” Thundercracker assured her as he dealt out five cards to each of them. “It’s not _money_.”

Windblade raised her eyebrows. “Oh. I see.”

She knew the game well enough--she had always been welcome at her fellow diplomats’ tables _because_ she did not gamble well--and she thought that if they weren’t playing for real stakes, then she could abandon her usual caution.

To her surprise, that attitude won her the first two games.

“I thought you said you couldn’t gamble,” Lord Starscream accused as he shuffled the cards. “Did you _lie_ to me?”

“No,” she protested, “but if we aren’t playing for real stakes, then I don’t need to watch my plays as carefully.”

“Oh, well, clearly we should have played for real stakes,” Lord Starscream said moodily, but to her surprise she felt his foot brush up against hers. When she looked at him, the corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smirk.

“Fine, how about we play for whether the princess talks some of her Camien engineers into spending a few years with us?” Thundercracker offered as Lord Starscream dealt the cards. “For real.”

Windblade said, “But I--,” _was already going to see if I could do that_ , but Thundercracker winked at her and she understood. She glanced down shyly. “Those are acceptable stakes,” she said meekly.

“Right,” Lord Starscream muttered.

This time, she deliberately played to lose, but not so much that Lord Starscream would suspect a trick. Judging from his looks, he suspected anyway, but when Thundercracker threw his cards down dramatically and clutched his head in his hands, it took attention off how she was playing. “You two are too rich for me,” Thundercracker bemoaned. “I’m going to bed.”

Windblade rose. “I should probably--.”

Thundercracker waved for her to sit down. “No need to leave on my account. Good night, you two!”

And then she and Lord Starscream were left alone, in a small office that felt smaller. It was her turn to shuffle, and she did so with a single-minded intensity, afraid to look at Lord Starscream. She dealt the five cards to them, her hands trembling slightly, and she jumped when Lord Starscream said, “I haven’t seen that style of dress before. Attempting to set a trend?”

“No, my lord,” she said. She fought to keep her voice even. The tight bodice and full skirt had felt decent before, but as she glanced down at herself, the way the fabric stretched across her chest felt positively scandalous. What had she been _thinking_? “It was a gift. Eukarian dresses for dancing deliberately allow for more movement. I had--thought to attend one of the Ember dancing clubs tonight, until Chromia came down with something.”

“Nothing too serious, I hope.”

“Oh no,” she said. “It happens sometimes--if I eat cream or if Chromia eats bread. These were not problems at home, but they do say travel gives you an education.”

“You don’t have bread in Caminus?”

Windblade frowned at her cards, another excuse not to look Lord Starscream in the eye. His foot was acting up again, what with brushing against her ankle. “Not quite like here, my lord. Chromia is fine with rice, but wheat she has difficulty with. I believe there was wheat in our stew yesterday.”

“Why would there be wheat in the stew?”

How did he not know that? He had been a soldier, and soldiers knew about making food go further. “Wheat flour can act as a thickener, my lord. It’s easy and cheap.”

“Ah.” He frowned slightly. “I was used to potatoes acting as a thickener. If you cover uncooked potatoes with oil while you prepare the rest of the stew, the heat and the oil cause the potatoes to dissolve.”

Windblade tried to source where potatoes came from. They were wholly unknown in Caminus, not having the right soil for them, but Eukaris had introduced them to their agriculture two centuries back. “Do potatoes come from Devishun, my lord?”

“Originally. We found that potatoes could thrive just about anywhere, provided there was dirt and a bit of water. Our supply trains had large tubs of them and we took them with us from place to place. At times, I ate so many potatoes I thought I would be sick of them,” he gave her a razor’s worth of a smile. “Now I find them comforting.”

“It is interesting how that happens,” she murmured. The touches to her ankles were getting distracting.

Lord Starscream made a satisfied noise as he placed his cards down. “I win.”

Windblade examined her cards. “You do.” She laid her cards down and hid a yawn. “So you get Caminus, then…?”

“If only,” Lord Starscream murmured. “Are you tired, my lady?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “If you’ll excuse me--.”

Lord Starscream rose with her. “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t escort you back to your quarters?”

Windblade bit her tongue on the instinctive response.

“Come on, Your Highness,” Lord Starscream said. He offered his arm, and she took it. “Let’s get you to bed, my lady.”

Her cheeks flushed at how suggestively he put it. “Thank you, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starscream is scheming, no surprise there, and Windblade is tired and wants to go home. 
> 
> "15 years where Primus and his Primes stayed sleeping" is an adjustment of the phrase describing the Stephen and Matilda War of England in the mid-12th century. ( _"13 years where God and his saints stayed sleeping."_ ) For historical fiction around that time period, I recommend _Duchess of Aquitaine_ by Margaret Ball and _Mistress of the Art of the Death_ and its sequels by Ariana Franklin.
> 
> Once (if) this fic wraps up, I might be inspired to include a reading list of all the works that helped inspire this and influenced it. If you're interested, sound off in the comments below!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a DVD commentary kind of thing up for the first six chapters [here](https://inkfic.tumblr.com/post/165026971387/on-the-story-so-far). I'll have more as the story progresses, but I discuss some of the influences for Windblade and Starscream's arc, as well as some background for Thundercracker. 
> 
> I also managed to post at a reasonable time my time!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: injuries, particularly broken bones, stitches/sutures, and allergic reactions. 
> 
> Thank you for all the comments! When the characters are being dramatic and difficult to write, your comments are what helps me wrangle them. So thank you for that.

**CHAPTER SEVEN: TRIALS AND TRAVELS**

_Early November, 1036 AP_

Starscream inhaled sharply. The cold wind blowing off the grey sea made his hat flap, but it wasn’t strong enough to be pushed off his head. The ship waiting for them was called _Wind Rider_ , and the small Camien outpost bordered its docking.

He hadn’t seen the sea in so long. It wasn’t the sea he had grown up with--that was the Vosian Sound, with sparkling blue-green water--but the smell of the water hadn’t changed. He stared at the horizon and wondered if this part of the sea had the same life his sea had had. Windblade cleared her throat from beside him. “My lord, we must make haste if we want to make the tide.”

She was pale and drawn in the overcast day, but he blamed that on the weeklong journey that it took to get to the docking. They were all grey with dust and exhaustion, and he didn’t expect the ship journey to be any better. “Of course,” he said. “And the horses?”

“They will be tended to by the grooms at the outpost,” she said. “Since they’re officially your property, they will be cared for until we return.”

“Good.” He gestured with his gloved hands. “My lady, after you.”

She lifted her long coat and riding skirt as she walked down the path, and he was almost in awe. Her riding boots, like his, had a slight heel to better adjust to the stirrups of the saddle, but the dirt leading down to the dock was damp and slightly slippery. Her skirts couldn’t possibly be helping with her balance, but yet she was walking down the steps with apparently no trouble.

Starscream realized he was smiling slightly as he watched her mincing steps, and he wiped his face clear before pattering down the steps behind her. The ship was bobbing on the waves, and the captain was shifting on his feet. So Windblade hadn’t been lying about the tide, and he quickened his steps once they were clear of the stairs. Windblade jerked slightly when he took her hand, but she followed him as he led her onto the ship.

The deck was brightly polished, and the captain followed after them. “My lord, my lady, welcome to the _Wind Rider_. I’ve named her as such because she’s the fastest ship I’ve ever captained, and she’ll get you to Caminus in half the time.”

“That is indeed good news,” Windblade said with a polite smile. “Providing Solus provides smooth sailing.”

“Indeed, my lady.” The captain inclined his head. “If you would like to get below, my crew can get to work.”

Below, there were five tiny staterooms that shared a common area. Afterburner had already disappeared into one of the staterooms, and Starscream glanced a question at Windblade. “He doesn’t travel well over water,” she said. “Once we get going, I’ll give him an anti-nausea aid. It’ll help him sleep.”

Windblade’s three ladies (what _were_ their names?) were already settled at the main table in the common area, playing some kind of card game. Chromia ambled off to join them as Starscream examined his room, a very small cabin with a bunk and table, bolted to the floor. His small travel case was located under the bed, and that was everything he needed to know about it.

He exited the room and chose a chair near where Windblade was seated with some embroidery on her lap. She was stitching--he narrowed his eyes--a firebird? She felt his eyes and didn’t look up from her work, but she said, “Remember that dress I wore to the ambassador’s event?”

“Fixing the cut from the axe, are you?” He sprawled out his legs, and she tucked hers under the chair. So she _had_ noticed his recent tendency to...bother her. “Can’t you give that to your ladies?”

“I’ve already mended the tear,” she said serenely. “But it’s very clear there _was_ a tear because the axe cut on the shoulder was not neat. The embroidery works with the stitching to make it look intentional.”

“I repeat: can’t you give that to your ladies?”

She looked at him. “I like embroidery.”

And that was that.

There was a lurch as the ship left the dock, and a muffled groan came through the door of Afterburner’s room. Windblade rose and put her embroidery down, and then she disappeared into her own room. She returned with a small, corked ceramic bottle, and in a wooden cup she dribbled two drops of whatever potion it was before she added water. She left the corked bottle on the table as she knocked and then entered Afterburner’s room, and Starscream sat upright to grab the bottle and sniff the contents.

There was a strong smell of ginger, and he coughed as he put the cork back in. Windblade returned in time to see him put the bottle back on the table, and she said, “Ginger tincture. It’s too strong on its own, so it needs to be watered down but it does wonders for sea sickness.” She glanced around the room. “If anyone needs it, please let me know.”

After she put it away, she came back to her embroidery. The ladies’ game of cards, whatever game it was, was heating up and Chromia was smirking. Their chatter provided enough of a cover for Starscream to edge his chair over and murmur, “Herbalist, embroidery, dancing, gardening...is there anything that Your Highness _doesn’t_ do?”

She considered the question seriously. “Butchery,” she said. “Tanning. I’m not very good at dying fabrics, I never get the proportions right. Hmm, what else--oh, smithing. I can sharpen my blades, but I’m hopeless at mending them. I can’t draw, well, anything except perhaps blueprints. Even then it’s chancy.” Her needle flashed as she pulled it through the silk. “You need to understand, my lord, that my mother dislikes anyone having too much free time, and I was bored a good deal of my childhood. I learned whatever I was allowed to learn, so yes, that means it appears I can do almost anything. It’s merely the product of being a ‘gifted’ child who learned quickly and therefore grew bored.”

“Do you hunt?”

“I prefer hawking.” She rolled her eyes, but he guessed it was at herself. “It means I’m not killing the poor creature, but yes, I can hunt. I’ve tended the silkworms, which doesn’t take much at the stage I was at. I always preferred the greenhouses and the kennels--I felt I was more useful there.”

“Your mother doesn’t like people not to be useful?”

“She prefers we _work_.” The gold outline of the firebird was being filled in, and Starscream realized she was using thread-of-gold, a notoriously finicky thread. Against his better judgement, he admired her ability to manage it. “You should understand, my lord, before we reach Caminus that my mother is not the type of ruler I suspect your Senate had been. She believes that people are more likely to follow if they see how she leads. She performs tasks that she personally finds repulsive, but people are much less likely to complain about doing them if the ruler does them.”

“How...pragmatic.” She was leaving the eye for later, he noted. Perhaps she would stitch in a jewel or another thread color. “And your brother? What manner of prince is he?”

“He’s better with accounting ledgers than with a needle or spade,” she said, refocusing on her work. “But it takes all kinds to run a state.”

“Very true.” He leaned back in his chair. “For some reason, I hadn’t expected you to be good with a needle.”

Her face twitched as she worked to hide her smile. “Embroidery is one of the few things I can do in noble company without it being thought too much of. The other thing is spinning, and I’m hopeless at spinning. The threads bunch up and then--oh, it’s hardly worth mentioning.”

When looked at in experimental terms, life magic was the magic of attraction. No wonder she couldn’t spin. “Are there other things you would prefer to do to fill up your time?”

“I prefer not to be in long evenings of noble entertainment,” she said bluntly. “It takes away from things that I could be doing that are more useful. Unfortunately, a certain amount of them expect my attendance, and so I must find ways to occupy myself in boring company. Embroidery is one, cards another.” She glanced at him. “I would think that you could empathize.”

He blinked, startled. “Excuse me?”

“Most states that I visit tend to throw lavish banquets and balls to celebrate my presence,” she said delicately. “They are typically very boring. You, however, invited me to a private dinner, and then you let me get to work. Do you not enjoy state occasions?”

He cleared his throat. He _loved_ state occasions, to be honest, particularly when they were about _him_. But there was another reason for his forbearance. “State occasions take both money and resources,” he said quietly. “I budget for specific occasions, like the event for the ambassadors. That does a lot for our trade and diplomatic ties. Otherwise, I try not to strain the treasury. It never looks good when the people are struggling to feed themselves while the lord eats over-well.”

“Only because it doesn’t look good?” She looked at him, and there was something in her eyes. Respect, perhaps? “I’m sure your people appreciate your frugality.”

“They complain about other things more,” he grumbled.

She laughed. “That is the nature of ruling,” she agreed. “No matter what, you can’t please everyone.”

“And besides, the population in Iacon is the largest group of survivors,” he said. “There are a few outlying villages that somehow escaped the war, and then there’s the Autobot commune to the north, but that is it. We went from an empire of millions to _maybe_ fifty thousand.”

“Are you gathered in Iacon because it is the easiest to defend?” she asked softly. The chatter from her ladies was growing louder, and it easily covered their conversation. “Or merely for its convenience?”

“It is neither easy to defend _or_ convenient,” he informed her. “Or did you not notice it took a week to reach the coast?”

“I had,” she said.

“But Iacon is supposedly the place where Primus intended his children to live. It has certain….spiritual significance. Added to that, it somehow remained intact, so the city has glamour to it for the survivors. I can’t argue with that.”

“Would you prefer to be in Vos?”

He breathed out sharply, and Windblade cringed. “Vos is a smoking ruin,” he said, clipped. “There’s nothing there anymore. Excuse me.” He left her in her chair and went up to the deck, where he skirted around the working sailors and found a place to be where he wasn’t bothering anyone.

The view of the waves, with their breaking crests, calmed him, and he remained there until he was too cold to stay.

\--

Windblade was thrown from sleep by literally being thrown from her tiny bunk onto the wooden floor of her stateroom. She pushed herself upright, hating how her head was ringing. She tossed her blankets back on her bed and threw open the door. “What’s going on?” she demanded of Chromia, who was bolting down the loose furniture in the common area.

Chromia’s eyes glinted strangely in the light of the crystal lamps. “Bad storm,” she said. “The girls are either helping Afterburner or bolting down things in their rooms. The lord is still up there, though. You might want to retrieve him.”

Windblade nodded and darted up the stairs. The door leading to the deck could be sealed to prevent seawater from waves that swamped the deck, and Windblade struggled with the door before it finally inched open. Her wrists hurt from the effort, but she shook them out and continued upward. One of the crew grabbed her arm as she came out from the stairs, and he yelled over the shrieking of the wind, “What are you doing?! Get back inside!”

“Lord Starscream,” she yelled back, and the sailor rolled his eyes. He dragged her toward him--her heartbeat jumped when he wrapped his arms around her, but to her relief she felt something tighten around her waist and she realized he had tied her to the mast with some rope. It was standard practice in storms, and as the deck tilted in another wave, she was grateful for his foresight.

She saw Lord Starscream by the rigging near the starboard side, and she fought to reach him. The deck wavered under her feet, and water slapped her in the face, but she couldn’t tell it was rainwater or breaking waves. Her feet slipped on the deck, but she caught herself on the side. The entire ship tilted alarmingly, and she was holding herself up from the railing. Lord Starscream hadn’t had someone to tie a rope around him, and as a wave broke over the edge of the railing and swamped them, she could see how his feet were knocked out from under him.

Windblade did a very stupid thing.

There was enough allowance on the rope to allow her to reach the forecastle, and she lunged for Lord Starscream as the wave started to carry him across the ship. The ship tilted as she lunged, and her feet slipped on the deck. The combined momentum caused her to crash into Lord Starscream, and she wrapped her arms around him and held on.

The two of them slammed into the railing, and Windblade tightened her hold on him. She was not going to let the sea take either of them. After a few seconds of heartbreaking terror and pure stubbornness, the ship righted itself and the water sloshed over the side. Windblade wasn’t sure if she should let go just yet, but then Lord Starscream’s hand came down over hers. “You can let me go,” he told her. “I might have bruises.”

“You don’t have a rope,” she objected, but she pulled herself off him and got to her feet. Lord Starscream tried to push himself upright, but she heard him grunt with pain and he collapsed again.

She looked down at him and saw that his left hand was bleeding and that two of the fingers were badly aligned. When they had slammed into the railing, he must have broken two fingers. She helped him up, and that was when she saw the blood streaming down his face. The ship tilted again, and he grabbed for her just as she went for him. Carefully, very carefully, she pulled them both back to the stairs and the door, and with him leaning heavily on her, she got the door open and them through it.

Her ladies stood up and started to flutter around them. Windblade leveled them with a look, out of patience with their inability to focus. “Get me my medical kit,” she ordered, “with plenty of linens, brandy, and a brazier. _Now_.”

With careful steps, she got them into Lord Starscream’s stateroom and she maneuvered him onto the narrow bed. One of the ladies came in with what Windblade needed, and she hesitated in the doorway before Windblade shook her head. “Get out.”

The lady closed the door, and Windblade pulled out the cork of the brandy bottle and poured some over the linen. She used it to wipe the blood away from Lord Starscream’s face and she found the cut, just above his eyebrow, and he flinched when she pressed the cloth to it. “You need to press the linen against where it hurts,” she told him, putting a fresh bunch of linen in his unharmed hand. “I’ll tend it once it stops bleeding and after I’ve set your fingers. That’s going to hurt, do you want some brandy to numb it?”

“I’ll manage.” He pressed the linen against his forehead as she agonized about what to do next. Their clothes were soaked--Windblade could dry hers with no problem, but she wasn’t sure about Lord Starscream’s--and jostling him could make his hand hurt more.

Finally, she settled on a course of action. “I’m going to set and wrap your hand,” she said as she pulled open her medical kit and found the dried comfrey leaves. She would rehydrate them in peppermint oil, and she thanked Solus that her potion-making tools were made of copper. It would hold the kind of heat she could give off. “Then I can help you with putting on dry clothes.”

“What about you?” he nodded at her soaked wool overcoat and sloshing boots. “You can’t exactly be comfortable, either.”

Windblade flushed. “If you don’t mind me being in a somewhat state of undress…?”

His eyes widened and he shook his head. She felt his gaze as she stripped off the coat and stepped out of her boots. Underneath, she wore a basic black robe and stockings, and as she concentrated, steam billowed from the fabric. She gave Lord Starscream an embarrassed look. “It’s easier to do with cashmere than with thick wool.” She dragged her medical kit over to her and examined Lord Starscream’s ruined right hand. She clicked her tongue as she wiped away the blood. The skin over the knuckles was split, that she expected, but his hand was already red and swelling from the trauma of broken bones. From the look of it, it was his middle and fourth fingers that were broken, but thankfully the bone hadn’t pierced the skin.

She felt his fingers carefully. “Sorry,” she murmured as he flinched, “but I need to know where the break is.”

“Carry on,” his voice was clipped, but she appreciated that he wasn’t lashing out at her. That hadn’t always been her experience when she was working on someone.

Windblade bit down on her bottom lip as she set the first and then the second break. That was her least favorite thing, she admitted to herself. She could stitch up terrible gashes and clean infected wounds, but the sound of setting a break always put her on edge.

 _Heal_ , she urged the bones as she wrapped the splints around the fingers. She sought out the thick mixture of comfrey in peppermint oil, both to reduce inflammation and risk of infection, and she slathered the warm oil onto his fingers and the top of his hand.

“Most healers don’t do that,” Lord Starscream said with interest. “Why do you?”

She started to wrap up his hand with fresh linen. “Because I’m _not_ a healer by magic,” she said, wiping the remnants of comfrey and peppermint oil on her skirt. She would need to create more for the gash on his face. “It will do until we get to the mainland and get you to a healer. The oil will reduce inflammation.”

“Why _don’t_ you have a healer? Don’t those ladies have some talent?”

Windblade rolled her eyes, lulled into a sense of intimacy by the fact that she was wrapping up a wound on his hand. “Not really, no.”

“Then why travel with them? You don’t seem like the type to be so...inefficient.”

“Because,” she said as she tied a knot on his hand and stood up. He stood with her and she started to help him out of his coat, “they are my brother’s spies.”

“Spies,” he said flatly.

“What, you’ve never spied on your brother?” She draped his coat on a chair and placed her hands on his loose silk shirt. She concentrated, and underneath her hands, the fabric warmed until it started to steam.

“I have,” Lord Starscream said, “but only when it was to keep him safe. Skywarp could...it doesn’t matter. All _three_ of them are spies?”

“Indeed. In case I try to shake off or confuse one, there are always the other two.”

“What’s he so scared of?” Lord Starscream sat down as she pulled her suture kit from her medical bag. He removed the linen from the cut on his head, and she frowned slightly at the size and shape of it. Unless she was very careful, it was going to scar.

“Traditional royal sibling rivalry,” she dismissed. “My lord, if you will forgive my impertinence, I believe it will be easier to stitch the wound if you keep your head on my lap.”

“Like my face was fabric you were embroidering?” Lord Starscream’s mouth hitched upward in a slight smirk, and she flushed.

“Er, yes, I suppose, if you wish to think of it that way.”

He shrugged as she sat down and placed a pillow on her lap. He laid his head down on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Traditional royal sibling rivalry...is he afraid that you’ll try to take the throne out from under him?”

Windblade measured out her silk thread, specially treated to prevent infection. “Perhaps,” she said vaguely, “or that I’d shame him. Having a sister who commands respect from our neighbors is a trifle...off putting.”

“Hm.” Lord Starscream winced slightly as she patted a cloth soaked in brandy against his skin. “I would think it would be a jewel in his crown.”

Windblade just managed not to snort. “If we’re being honest…”

“You’re about to insert a needle into my torn flesh. I would _hope_ that we’re being honest.”

She laughed. “Fair enough. My brother is the type that anyone who appears to do better or be better than him causes a certain amount of jealousy.”

“Ah.” Lord Starscream quieted for a moment. “I’ve been the victim of that kind of jealousy.”

Windblade swallowed her first inquiry, which would have been if that had been what led to his scarring. “It can be difficult,” she admitted. “All instances of perceived misbehavior cause scolding and punishment, and any kind of triumph causes--.”

“More jealousy and resentment.” Lord Starscream’s lips thinned as she went to work on the third stitch. She was deliberately making small stitches; it would prolong the treatment process but it would help to prevent a scar. “So do you stay away to keep yourself from his poison, or does he send you away deliberately?”

“Caminus is my home,” she said. “It always will be. But…” she struggled to find the right words. “I don’t know,” she said. “I hate being around him, but I always long for home.”

He tilted his chin to look up at her when she was between stitches. “And now you’re going home.”

“In time for the New Year,” she said. “Put your head back down, I’m still stitching.”

“How many stitches does it take?” he groused.

“Forgive me for trying to keep you from scarring.”

“Fine, fine.” He crossed his hands over his chest. “Tell me a story.”

“This wasn’t enough?”

“This was personal, not a story. And I don’t think you want me talking?”

“So then why are you?” she inquired.

He stuck his tongue out.

“Fine,” she sighed. She racked her brains for something suitable. “You know Knock Out and Breakdown.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I met them the first time I went to Navitas. It’s far to the south in the Stellar Ocean. I had gone there because Navitas, the--spirit of their islands? She is a city, like Metroplex, but not an urban one--had sealed herself off from them. What I hadn’t known at the time was that Navitas lived under the islands, in the water, and I didn’t know how to swim.”

Camien lakes and rivers were too cold for swimming, and Navitas was very warm. It was technically a chain of islands that had been volcanic but were long dormant, and Windblade had been scandalized to see how little the Navitans wore--sleeveless sarongs and wraps--but her silks had been too hot in the humidity of the islands, and she had adopted the Navitan fashion reluctantly.

She had been taught to swim by Moonracer, one of her guides and companions. Knock Out had tried to teach her, but he was too impatient and Windblade too shy. Moonracer had been the better choice for a lot of reasons, and finally Windblade had mastered what the Navitans called “free-diving,” and it enabled her to dive down and talk to Navitas.

Navitas, as it turned out, had felt that she had failed her people because with her help, they had explored the furthest reaches of the Stellar Ocean, but with the advent of diplomatic travel and trade, their borders had shrunk until Navitans could only travel around their islands. So they had turned to racing and streamlined their ship design until the ships were built for speed and speed alone. The problem with that design was that the ships weren’t hardy enough to survive the perils of open ocean, and only the most daring survived. Navitas felt it was her fault that her people could no longer explore, and so she had cut herself off in shame. Windblade had had to talk it out with her, and then finally she had brought Override and Moonracer to talk to the island city. In return for regular contact, Override worked out, Navitas would unseal herself. Navitas herself could have a say in who ruled her people, and that was enough.

“I remained with them for two more seasons after that,” Windblade concluded as she finished the last few stitches. From the feel of the ship, maybe the water had settled or one of the sailors above knew how to stabilize a ship in a storm. Either was equally likely. It made stitching him up easier, though. “Just to teach them how to care for a city. It took me a while, but I really fell in love with the islands. They loved the ocean in a way the Seers of Caminus do.”

“Seers?” Lord Starscream asked as she began to wrap the stitches.

“You’ll see.” She concentrated on making sure the wrapping was secure. “Your turn.”

“My turn for what?”

“A story. I shared mine, so you should share yours.”

Lord Starscream made a face. “I don’t have good stories.”

She knotted the wrapping, and he winced at how tight it was. “Was that necessary? Ugh, _fine_.” He resettled himself on the bed, instinctively touching the small brown scars around his lips. “It was a constant risk to be captured by the enemy during the war. I used to joke about it--how many times have we escaped the Autobots again? They never learned how to block my magic.”

Windblade’s hands stilled on the bandages. “Your death magic.”

“The Autobots gave me a reputation for a silver tongue,” he corrected. “It’s cold reading. Yes, I used a touch of my magic to find what they most feared, typically a gruesome death, but there were only a few that I actually talked to death. That was until I got caught by Special Operations in a maneuver that I found out later had been deliberately set up to catch me and my brothers. They blocked me.”

Windblade’s stomach turned over. “They…”

“They sewed my mouth shut, yes.”

Windblade pressed a hand to her mouth to quell the instinctive nausea. It would have been incredibly painful, to begin with, and then judging from the scars themselves, she doubted he had been given adequate medical care. “And then…?”

“The thing that saved me was that it had been done by amateurs, not their captain. Their captain was more...subtle. He didn’t believe in torture.” Lord Starscream snorted. “I would almost call him an idealist, but he’s the one with the true silver tongue. In any case, he arrived and saw the mess they had made, and he made them repair it. In exchange for a favor, he let me go.”

“He just...let you go?”

“I rendered a personal service,” Lord Starscream said blandly. “In war, allegiances can be...fluid in certain circumstances, and I wanted to give Megatron a bad turn without it being linked to me. It was the perfect way to do it.”

Windblade dared to glance her fingertips across one of the scars. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

There was a crack of thunder, in which she saw Lord Starscream swallow but didn’t hear it. “It’s war,” he said, but she knew him well enough--a surprising revelation in and of itself--to see that his blase manner was an act. “It happens.”

“It should not have.”

In an unexpected act of--affection? gratitude?--Lord Starscream grasped her hand and brushed a kiss against her palm. She curled her hand around his jaw. “Would you like me to help you sleep?” she asked. “It might be…”

Lord Starscream shifted. “I’m a little cold for that.”

She hid a smile at the transparency of his request. “That’s easily remedied.” She placed her hand over his sternum and felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Carefully, she allowed heat to trickle from her hand into his heart and into his veins, and he relaxed fully as the heat traveled through his body.

“That’s a handy trick,” Lord Starscream’s voice was already slurring with tiredness, a natural response to sharp pain and the succor of it. “I can see how you would be useful in a sickroom.”

“I’ve tended many, yes,” she admitted. “I’ve had some that didn’t turn out as well as you.”

“Can’t you keep them here?”

“Only if they can be helped.” She hesitated. “When I was younger, I was an assistant to one of the head healers after a bad fire took out many buildings. One of those who had fought to save so many breathed in flame and burned his throat and lungs. I could have kept him alive, but there was nothing we could have done to heal him. Instead…” she dropped her head. “The head healer, she helped him sleep and then…”

“Do you know how to do that? Have you learned?”

“I can do it,” she said. “But I don’t like to unless it’s absolutely necessary. It...It makes me sick.”

“I understand.” His eyes slipped closed. “Can you help me sleep? The ocean shifts aren’t helping.”

“I’ll stay with you to ensure that head wound doesn’t turn nasty,” she promised, and she rested her other hand in his curls and gently urged sleep to take over his mind. He allowed it, and Windblade rested her head against the wall of the stateroom.

The storm was either slaking or they were moving out of it. Lord Starscream’s body against her lap was heavy and warm, and she fought off her own exhaustion. She had healed that body, and a small, almost selfish part of her went _Mine_.

\--

Starscream woke up feeling unusually languid. He had always liked sailing--the stars were clearer at sea--but he had never slept well aboard ship. Yet he was heavy and warm and comfortable, and he loved it.

Then someone moved under him and he froze.

He hadn’t gone to bed with someone in years, not since--it didn’t matter. Who was in bed with him? He tensed. An assassin? That wasn’t outside the realm of the possible. He slipped a hand down his side to find the small knife he always carried. The polished maple handle fit into his palm and he drew it with no sound. He would have to be fast, especially if it was an assassin.

It wasn’t until he tried to grip the knife handle and get into position that his hand hurt sharply from his attempt to hold the knife, and he looked down at his hand to see how it had been wrapped. Assassins wouldn’t take the time to deal with his wounds, so who was it?

The person underneath him shifted again, and he heard them yawn. Finally, he looked up and saw the soft underside of Windblade’s chin as she yawned and rubbed her eyes. She had slept sitting upright with his head on her lap, to--his memories came back once he put aside his normal guardedness--keep him safe from potential complications from his head wounds and to keep him warm.

Starscream blinked as he realized he was touched at her show of care.

Only slightly, of course. He wasn’t _entirely_ losing it.

“Good morning,” Windblade said sleepily. Her blue eyes were hooded as she looked at him, and her hair was...exploding around her face. He pointed toward her hair, and she felt her hair instinctively. “Oh, Solus damn it!”

Using his uninjured hand, Starscream pushed himself upright as he pressed his lips together to keep from laughing aloud at Windblade’s clear frustration. “It’s the salt water,” he said unnecessarily. “I’m sure mine is a mess too.”

“A _presentable_ mess,” she grumbled. She stood up and nearly fell down. It was a truth universally acknowledged that if someone slept on a person’s lap, that person’s legs would fall asleep and dislike being woken up. Windblade sat on the edge of the bunk and started to massage her thighs, her lips taut to the point of being white. “I hate this part of sea travel.”

“The pins and needles or the salt water?” He found his canteen of freshwater and his shaving kit, and in the small mirror set into the wood, he started to shave his chin and upper neck. Just because he was traveling was no excuse to let his facial hair get the better of him. Flakes of salt dropped onto the small table that held his shaving cut from the dried salt water, and he scratched at his skin. He wasn’t left-handed, and he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to get the corners of his jaw.

Through careful finagling, he got the blade into his right hand and moved slowly. In the mirror, he saw Windblade fighting to tame her hair, and a brief shoot of pity moved his hand. He offered her his canteen and his comb, and he said, “Can’t have your brother’s spies thinking that you did anything more than work on my wounds.”

The look she shot him was full of outrage, but she took the water and the comb. He smirked slightly, so as to not pull his stitches, but it got the message across to the indignant princess.

Slowly, her mass of tangles settled into a long sheet of dark sheet of hair. He was vaguely interested in seeing that it was naturally straight, but when she caught him looking she blushed and turned away from him. “You hadn’t struck me as someone easily flustered,” he commented.

“It’s not that,” she said as her hands worked to braid her hair. “It’s just that--hair has specific connotations in Caminus.”

“Like what?”

Once her hair was braided, she found pins from somewhere and started to coil it around her head. “Little ones have their hair loose, but once you come of age, you start to wear it up or keep it cropped short. Seeing it loose is something reserved for family and inti-intimate,” she stumbled slightly, and his amusement grew, “Intimate friends.”

“So if you were to exit my room with loose hair, it would say…?”

“You know very well what it would say,” she snapped.

“Yes, I do,” he agreed. He turned around to gift her with a grin. “You should keep your tail clear of rocking chairs, Princess.”

“See if I check your dressing tonight,” she grumbled. “By your leave, my lord.” She bowed and exited the room, and he turned back to the mirror to finish shaving. It was _far_ too easy to tweak her tail, but he would keep doing so as long as it was enjoyable.

When he went above deck, he was startled to see that the sky was a brilliant azure and that sunlight glittered on the silver sea. It was such a radical change from the storm from the night before that he had to stare for a moment. Then he recollected himself to go in search of the captain, who was discussing something with Windblade. Her ladies were all around the deck, tending to the various wounds of the sailors, but there were less than he expected. As he approached the captain, the captain turned to face him, beaming. “I was just telling the Princess here how you stepped in to help when we needed an extra pair of hands, my lord. I am truly grateful.”

Starscream waved a hand expansively. “How badly blown off course were we?”

“You see, that’s the funny thing,” the captain said. “We were actually moved closer to Caminus that I had initially planned for. We’ll get there tonight if this wind holds.”

Starscream raised his eyebrows. “Really.”

“It has to be the work of Solus,” the captain enthused. “She sometimes works through storms, right Princess?”

“Indeed,” Windblade said. She wandered to the railing and leaned against it. “I doubt this was her work, though.” She veiled her eyes as she peered across the expanse of the ocean. “I don’t think she gains from it.”

“I don’t know about that,” the captain disagreed, but respectfully. “The First Seer will still be in port when we dock. She’s supposed to leave tomorrow morning for the lowlands.”

“First Seer?” Starscream inquired.

“Witches with Sight,” the captain explained. “There’s one posted to every port to help ships come in and to predict bad weather for the lighthouses. However, because they learn to see so far, it’s said they can see the future too.”

“Your traveling fortuneteller,” Windblade clarified. “With more respect and power than the common charlatan.”

“Ah.” Starscream frowned slightly. “That requires divine intervention…?”

Windblade shrugged. She glanced up at his forehead, and he felt the bandages. They weren’t slipping and once he thought about it, he could feel how his forehead was aching slightly, but it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been. “Do you want to review your work?” Starscream asked sarcastically.

The captain excused himself as Windblade turned to lean against the railing. “I trust my skills,” she said. “There should be a healer attached to the inn, so you should be able to get it mended.”

“Oh, _excellent_. I do fear my reputation might take some bruising if I were to introduce myself to your mother like this.” He rested his elbows on the railing next to her. “Given that Camiens don’t scar, of course.”

Windblade pursed her lips. She looked vaguely offended, and he hid a smirk. She was entirely too easy to provoke, and he relished her response. Was she going to state her offense? Would she _scold_ him? The complicated emotions dancing across her face cheered him to no end. Finally, to his disappointment, she said nothing.

He wanted her response, so he continued to needle her, “Is she the type to want to rehash old war stories? I’m not certain that I’d be comfortable doing so, but would she make it a requirement?”

Windblade’s lips thinned.

“I _suppose_ I could tell the story of this one with no issue,” he drawled, gesturing to the scar on his cheek. “Wrangling with an Autobot, it’s a story with lots of action and drama. I wrangled with an Autobot assassin and got this cut for my trouble, but better my face than my neck!”

Windblade’s eye twitched.

“I _could_ tell the story of my neck,” he mused, appreciating how Windblade was flushing with irritation, “but I can never gauge the response of my audience--.”

“For what it’s worth,” she said, clipped, “your use of entirely too frustrating mannerisms is clearly a distraction ploy, and one that only works when someone doesn’t know you.”

“And do you know me?”

“Well enough,” she said quietly, which denied him the right to give her a scathing response about how much she _didn’t_ know him. Still, perhaps it was fair--he _had_ needled her intentionally. She turned away from him. “I should pack,” she said in a vague tone, and he watched her disappear below decks.

He stayed above deck through the morning and past noon. Around what he guessed to be two in the afternoon, the grey coastline of Caminus appeared. As they drew closer and the sun went down, Starscream saw that the coast was largely sheer cliff, ringing with the shrieking gulls and the cry of the odd albatross. The port they were heading toward had been hewn from the stone, and Starscream shivered as the cliffs cast long shadows against the setting sun. It was cold and the ocean was stone-grey, to match the grey cliffs.

Starscream sensed the captain coming to stand next to him. “You’ll want to dress warm,” the captain said. “It gets cold in the highlands.”

“That explains her frosty demeanor,” Starscream said idly.

The captain shook his head. “I’ve been transporting her back and forth from all of her visits. She’s--,” the captain shifted on his feet. “She’s not like the other royals. I’m normally a trading captain, but I’d offer her my ship anytime.”

“Well, that’s good to know.” Starscream frowned at the approaching cliffs. “Those must be murder to berth near.”

“We have enchantments for that,” the captain replied. “That’s what most of the coastline is. We couldn’t trade unless we had special magics for it.”

That was an interesting point. Caminus, on one hand, seemed to be a repressed theocracy, but on the other they had developed magics that Starscream could only marvel at. Vos had had their own special magics, too--being surrounded by water that was apt to storm frequently would do that, but…

Perhaps that was the link. Camien and Vosian magics developed as a response to their environment. Caminus sounded inhospitable, and Vos was _not_ , but there were recurring problems, climate and otherwise, that kept them managing their environment in small, magical nudges. Shield spells during storms, engineering to help excess water drain...none of it was to influence the environment itself, merely to encourage those who lived in it to survive.

The next logical question was _why_ the rulers of Iacon had felt the need to control their environment. He was dimly aware that Windblade had been investigating that, but he hadn’t cared. It didn’t solve the immediate problem, did it? But looking up at Caminus, an island with natural defenses that also hindered their native population...the cause was as important as the effect.

The captain went to command the docking process as Windblade came back up to him, dressed in that navy riding coat of hers. “I know it doesn’t seem like much,” she confessed, “but once we’re clear of the coat, Caminus is really quite beautiful.”

“Did you find anything about why Iacon relied on weather witches for rain?” he asked abruptly.

Windblade shook her head. “All I’ve been able to find is that it started around Nova Prime. I _wish_ your library had more primary sources, but I might be able to find something here at home.”

“Why here at home?” he raised his brows at her as they both steadied themselves from the rocking of the ship as it met the dock.

“Caminus took in a lot of refugees fleeing the war,” Windblade said as she tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear. She had managed to braid it, but it was far more messy than she had previously allowed. “It’s Camien law that any new books that come into the country _must_ be copied so that the copies go into the Library of Solus. The owners retain the originals. If any of the refugees had any sort of historical text with them, there would be a copy in our library.”

“That’s...very smart. Are the owners compensated?”

Windblade nodded. “I can likely arrange for further copies to be made and shipped back to Iacon. If you would like, I mean.”

Starscream felt himself grinning. It was purely instinctive, but in the fading light he saw Windblade’s cheeks flush. _Good_. “That would be perfect. I wonder if…”

“Yes?” she prompted.

Starscream shook himself free of his musings. “My city lost everything in the war. Even something would be better than nothing.”

“I can check,” she promised. She turned as the sailors began to bring up their luggage. “Is everything of yours packed?”

He nodded. “Where are we staying?” He glanced up at the sky. “I presume that we’re not traveling in the dark.”

“We’re staying at one of the royal wayhouses,” she said. “The embassy contacted them when we left, so we’re just a little early.” She shivered. “I’d like food.”

“That isn’t spiced with the salt of the sea?” he teased lightly.

She flashed a smile at him. “Exactly.”

Apparently a ship carrying the flag of the Princess of Caminus spurred action. By the time Starscream, Windblade, and her entourage disembarked, there was a large carriage waiting, pulled by four horses. Windblade’s lips thinned upon sight of it, but she allowed herself to be chivvied aboard after a hurried, whispered conversation with the driver. It was roomy and comfortable on the inside, with padded seats and folding tables that ostensibly could host paperwork or small games.

Windblade _hated_ it. He could see how her eyes narrowed and she barely managed to keep her lips from curling, but the sheer opulence of the coach offended her. She stalked into it with a cat’s affronted dignity, and she very clearly bit her tongue when her ladies entered and exclaimed over the luxury.

He reached out to touch her knee lightly after he sat down across from her. He opened his mouth to ask something, but she shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself. It wasn’t _that_ cold, but the gesture was enough to get her ladies to stop chattering and to find lap blankets. Afterburner entered last, while her ladies were still gathering blankets, and to Starscream’s slight shock, Afterburner still looked drawn and grey. He tucked his forehead against the corner of the carriage that he was seated on and apparently fell asleep; Starscream felt a moment’s envy for Afterburner’s ease.

The journey to the royal wayhouse wasn’t long, but it was long enough for Windblade to get a headache from her ladies’ discussion on finally being home again. The first week she was home was always an exercise in sensory overload; her magic recognized Caminus as _home_ and she had to redo her wards every time. She could sense every heartbeat around her--her three ladies, Lord Starscream across from her, Afterburner next to him, Chromia on the roof, the driver, the horses, the people outside the coach as they watched it go by…

And just like every heartbeat, she could sense every ailment within those bodies. A headache bloomed behind her eyes, and she leaned her head back against the padded seat and closed them. A hot bath and some simple, hot food before a sleeping draught, and she would be better. She just had to get through it all.

The carriage jerked to a halt, and she sat upright with a slight wince. Afterburner matched her wince for wince, but that was because his stomach was still cramping. He exited first, followed by her ladies, and then Lord Starscream. Windblade took a breath to steady herself, and then she left the carriage. One of the grooms was waiting for her, and they offered a gloved hand to help her step down. Windblade’s back teeth clamped, but she took the offered assistance to enter the wayhouse yard.

It flew the royal flag of Caminus, but for safety’s sake, it never flew the flag of any royal in residence. Inside, the wayhouse was large and spacious, with a fire burning in the extensive grate. Chromia and the other porters appeared behind them with luggage, and they were shown up to their rooms. Afterburner and Lord Starscream both got their own rooms, but for appearances, Windblade found herself in a room with an attached solar and private garderobe, shared with her still-chittering ladies.

She turned to grasp the innkeeper’s arm. “Lord Starscream will require a healer,” she said, “before his bath is drawn. He has a head wound and two broken fingers.”

The innkeeper bowed. “I will see to it, my lady princess.”

“Thank you.” Windblade pressed a tip into the innkeeper’s hand and vanished into her room.

Starscream examined his rooms. He had a bedchamber, solar, and garderobe, with a lit fire in the grate. He held his hands to the fire to warm them, wincing only once at his broken fingers. All in all, the cut on his forehead and his broken fingers weren’t the worst injury he’d ever had, and with Windblade’s tender care, even the pain was at manageable levels without any sort of pain soothers.

There was a knock at the door, and he called, “Enter!”

Someone bustled into the room while carrying a heavy chest. He watched with bemusement as they placed it on the side table and started to unpack it. “Princess Windblade requested that I look in on you,” the person told him after a quick bow. “Just to fix you up before your bath.”

“I see.” Starscream perched on the sofa’s armrest. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” the person fussed. “I’m just the healer attached to the wayhouse.” They winked at him. “You’d be surprised at what I heal here.”

“Is that an invitation?” Starscream drawled. He looked the healer up and down and realized that he couldn’t figure out their pronouns from what they were wearing. It was a long, grey fabric tube with a white smock on top of it. Their hair was long, but he discounted that--from everyone he had seen since they came ashore, everyone had long hair. “If you won’t tell me your name, could you tell me your pronouns?”

“I go by she, my lord,” she said.

“Thank you.” He watched her fiddle with her jars. “What are those?”

“Family secret,” she said. “My lord.” She turned to him with a swish of her grey robes and gestured for him to come to her. For a healer attached a royal wayhouse, she had very little understanding of what it meant to be in a royal presence--lords _never_ went to a healer, the healer came to them.

With an internal sigh--it wasn’t worth the argument when he was tired, achy, and desperately wanted a bath--he crossed the room and sat down at the small table that she had set up her jars on. She cut away the bandage on his forehead and hummed. “Nice, neat stitches. There shouldn’t be a scar. Tell me, which lady of Princess Windblade’s did this? I would enjoy having the aid of a nurse.”

“Princess Windblade did it,” Starscream replied.

He sensed surprise from the healer, and then--her eyes lit with the greed of a gossip. He wondered what he had said that would entertain the servants below stairs. Surely it was well-known that their princess had trained as a healer?

“Well, please give her my thanks. I’ve had to heal some messy wounds, made messier by poor suturing, and this will be fixed in a trice.” The healer placed her left hand over the cut on his forehead, and she hummed. Heat swept over his skin and there was a pull and a sharp shock of pain before it settled into what he normally thought of when it came to his forehead--nothing at all. She took her hand away and brought forth narrow, silver scissors, and with nearly-silent snipping sounds, she removed the thread that had held the cut closed.

From there, she worked on his hand. He hated the sound of bones healing--they snapped into place and he would rather have his mouth sewn shut again than have to listen to it. Still, it didn’t take very long and the scrape on his hand that Windblade had cleaned so carefully was healed. The healer pressed a tiny jar into his hands of a loose liquid. “After you bathe, rub this into your skin,” she urged. “It will help deal with any residual soreness and swelling.”

He nodded.

“Should I call for a bath for you or would you prefer to go down to the bathhouse?”

“This wayhouse _has_ a bathhouse?”

The healer twinkled at him. “Oh, indeed. It’s downstairs, past the main dining room through a longer hallway and then it will be there. We’re very modern--we’ve split it up so that everyone can either bathe together or separately.”

“Are linens provided?”

“Of course!” The healer beamed. “I’ll tell them to expect you, my lord.” She picked up her box and left the room, and Starscream glanced down at the small jar she had given him. He had a vague thought that it should have been more of a balm or a cream, but he supposed an oil would do.

\--

Windblade combed her hair in front of the large fire dreamily. Her ladies had gone down to the bathhouse and Chromia too, since this was a royal wayhouse and had several defensive spells in place, built up over a long time. Once her long hair was combed all the way through, she would braid it and eat, and then _finally_ be able to crawl into a soft bed, warmed with hot bricks, and she would succumb to the exhaustion that had dogged her since they had left Iacon.

She hadn’t minded the ship journey, but the weeklong trek over dead, dusty ground had made her feel low and filthy. She was finally home again, but it felt different--the ground still radiated warmth and light, a side-effect of the volcanoes that marked the landscape, but there was bitterness in the air where there hadn’t been before.

Travel broadens your perceptions, she thought ruefully. No one ever says that you’ll _like_ it.

The hair oil on her hands made it a little slippery to gather her hair to braid it, but she managed just the same and started on one plait. She had finished it and was halfway through the other when she heard a shout of pain coming from Lord Starscream’s room. She tied it off hurriedly and grabbed her medical kit, helpfully left out in the open where she could easily find it (her ladies might not have been good for much, but they could obey simple directions), and then left her room to cross the hallway to Lord Starscream’s room.

The door was slightly ajar, and as she pushed it open, he turned to glare at her with both hands and face rapidly swelling and turning darker. His hair was still wet from his bath and was a mass of curls, and his eyes narrowed further upon seeing her. “Windblade,” he grunted. “ _Help_.”

She put down her kit and started to rifle through it. “What happened?”

“Does it matter?” he howled as one of his eyes closed up completely and he fell onto the chaise lounge.

Anxiety thrummed through her but she grabbed hold of it. “Do you want me to guess what your treatment should be?”

She _thought_ he was scowling at her, but it was hard to tell through the swelling. “Oil the healer left behind,” he grumbled. “Started to rub it in and it burned and swell and well,” he gestured to himself.

It _sounded_ like a bad reaction, but she had to be sure. She picked up the still-open jar on the table and sniffed. “Rosewater, aloe and...witch hazel?” She looked at him to see if any of that sounded familiar.

His shoulders slumped. “Witch hazel. Can’t have it.”

It was a bad reaction, then. She returned to her pack and found the jar of oat milk cream that she kept for when Chromia’s reactions got too bad, and then she went over to him. “How are you breathing?” she asked as she undid the top. Powerful magic was sealed into the cream--not hers, but she had strengthened it--and she needed to keep it tightly closed when she wasn’t using it.

“Fine,” his shoulders lifted in a shrug as he tilted his face toward her. “Didn’t breathe it in or nothing.”

She nodded as she picked up two fingers worth of cream and started to work it into his face. The hands weren’t as important as his sight, and even as she worked down his cheeks to his chin, the swelling began to clear. “A side effect of this cream is that you’ll be a little stiff,” she warned. “I’d recommend a light dinner too.”

She picked up one of his hands and massaged more cream into it. His skin was clearing from a dark, almost purplish brown to the coppery amber she was used to, and she smiled faintly at it as she went to work on the other one. “How are you feeling now?”

“Still a little tingly,” he muttered, “but it doesn’t hurt anymore.” He was looking at her oddly, and she couldn’t figure out why. “What is that?”

“Oat milk cream,” she said. “Oats are very helpful for treating bad reactions like yours, or rose or hay fever. You boil the oats down in water and--.”

“I don’t care how it’s made,” he interrupted. “Why do you have it?”

“Oh, Chromia. She has dreadful hay fever.” She patted his hand and got up to wash off the cream. “I struggle with ivy,” she admitted. “But most gardens that have it that I’ve been in have it for decorative purposes and it isn’t fair to ask them to remove it on my behalf. I learned my lesson about burning it.” She shivered as she dipped her hands into the ceramic basin--the water was cold. “Now I just wear long sleeves and gloves when I’m handling it, and there’s no harm done.”

“You work too hard around other people,” he groused. “You’re a princess, you _can_ ask them to change things to suit you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Did the healer tell you what was in that oil?”

He shook his head. “Family secret is what she told me.”

Windblade tutted. “Books of medicines and potions get carried down through multiple generations,” she told him quietly. “In order for a family to keep its’ influence in the more rural towns and villages, they keep their recipes secret and only teach their children when the children are old enough to keep the secret. My mother has attempted to rule against the practice, but people don’t like to give up power.” She nodded at the jar. “Unfortunately, that practice can lead to what you experienced.”

“Hm,” Lord Starscream said.

She sat down next to him to eye his hands. He lifted them up for her perusal in his most long-suffering manner, but she saw his mouth twitch with humor. “I was going to order some congee,” she said. “Would you like me to order some for you as well?”

He tilted his head. “Congee?”

“Rice porridge?” She turned his hand over and spotted a few thin scars on his wrist that disappeared under his sleeve. She pretended she hadn’t seen as she further examined his fingers, finally healed.

“Ah,” he said. “When I was growing up, that was our breakfast during monsoon season. It was cooked in coconut milk with vanilla.”

She had had congee cooked in coconut milk. It wasn’t bad, except slightly too sweet. “It’s more savory here, but essentially the same.” She released his hand. “It’s mild enough.”

“Fine,” he waved a hand and leaned back on the chaise. Bad reactions made anyone tired, so she exited the room to find a servant. When she came back, his eyes were closed. She found a chair and started to sort through her medical kit, and once that was done--and his eyes hadn’t opened--she remembered that one of her plaits was only half-finished and she undid it so that she could finish it entirely. The hair oil hadn’t entirely soaked into her hair, so she was able to make a nice, tight plait and tie it off.

As she tossed the plait over her shoulder, she realized that with her hair still damp, it had bled moisture onto her silk robe and caused the fabric that was over her upper chest and back to cling to her body. No wonder Lord Starscream had looked at her so oddly. The damp, combined with the cold, had caused her body to, um, show that it was cold.

She sighed and rubbed her arms. The damage was done, but thankfully he hadn’t attempted to use that to seduce her. She wasn’t in the mood to be seduced. Her headache had only lessened, not abated entirely.

When she looked up, Lord Starscream’s eyes were on her. He was still leaning against the chaise, but his eyes were flickering with the reflection of the firelight. “I didn’t know your hair was that long,” he remarked.

Windblade flushed deeply. “It’s tradition,” she muttered. “For a princess. I would prefer it shorter, it makes my work easier.”

“So why not cut it?”

“It would imply something about me that I do not want to be in the public discourse,” she said. “Caminus is very free in some ways, but not in others.”

“I see.” He sat upright. “About my bad reaction--.”

“It’s nothing,” she said.

“That’s the second time you’ve tended to me,” he replied.

She flashed him a shy smile. “We’re almost even.”

He gave her a slightly friendlier smirk than normal, and her heart lifted. Maybe the healing was good for something after all.

\--

Bumblebee leaned against his cane and tried not to wince as his leg twinged. The fast-rising cold was causing the muscles in his ruined leg to contract, and he wanted nothing more than to be in a warm bed with a hot brick.

Instead, he was in the chilly audience hall with Prowl and Prime. Prime was pacing, and Prowl was at his desk, sifting through correspondence. “Have you heard about Starscream’s departure?”

“I have,” Bumblebee tried to shift unobtrusively.

“It’s a perfect opportunity.”

“It’s not.”

Prime stopped pacing, and Prowl looked up from his correspondence. “Excuse me?”

“Do you know who Starscream left in charge in his place?”

“Thundercracker isn’t--,” Prowl started.

“Thundercracker is not the military mind his brother is, but Thundercracker is a storm witch. Winter has begun. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

Prowl shrugged. “His power has limits.”

“Limits I’m not willing to test against our people,” Bumblebee said.

Prime took three large steps toward Bumblebee and lifted him up by his lapels. Bumblebee’s cane clattered to the floor and his legs curled up. “This is the second time you have shown such insubordination to us,” Prime growled.

Bumblebee’s heart raced, but something caught his attention. He had worked closely with Optimus during the war and had gotten used to the way Optimus’ eyes looked in all his moods. Prime didn’t have Optimus’ eyes. _This wasn’t Optimus Prime_.

“Prime,” Prowl said sharply.

Prime let him go and Bumblebee clattered to the ground. His bad leg folded underneath him, and he bit his tongue in an effort not to scream with pain. Prime--not Optimus, never Optimus--stalked off, and Bumblebee had to accept the floor as his place of residence for the determinable future. His leg was not going to hold his weight when he (eventually) got up, and it was a question of postponing the inevitable agony.

He was surprised when Prowl grabbed his arm and pulled him upright. Bumblebee clung to Prowl as Prowl handed Bumblebee his cane. “I’m sorry,” Prowl said awkwardly. “He’s finding our changed circumstances difficult to swallow.”

Faction loyalty was the only thing that prevented Bumblebee from taking out his epiphany and pain on Prowl then and there. For a moment, he dreamed of the confrontation, where he accused Prowl of indulging in forbidden magics instead of learning to accept that his people desired stability over 15 years of solid war. In that dream, Prowl broke down and vowed to fix the problem he created.

Bumblebee knew Prowl well enough to know that that would _never_ happen. When his leg was stable enough (trembling, but stable), he pushed free of Prowl and headed in the direction of his room. He wasn’t surprised to see Jazz dozing in the chair before the fire, but he was surprised when Jazz leapt to his feet upon Bumblebee’s entry and helped him to the bed. The blankets were warm, and if he hadn’t been in so much pain, the warmth would have lured him into sleep.

“What happened?” Jazz asked as he put away the cane. It was still heady, to be talked to like Jazz’s equal instead of his student. “When I heard Prowl had called you in, I guessed it wasn’t for anything good.”

“Starscream has left for Caminus,” Bumblebee said as he started to dig his thumbs into the cramped muscles of his lower thigh. It _hurt_ , but it was the only way he would be somewhat functional in the morning. “Prowl thinks it’s the perfect opportunity to attack Iacon.”

Jazz knelt in front of Bumblebee and started to work on the muscles of Bumblebee’s calf. “Winter is never a good time to attack. It just makes a siege worse.”

“Which I told him. _Then_ ,” Bumblebee hissed an expletive, “Prime objected to my objection.” He looked down at Jazz, his hands stilling on his knee. “He’s not Optimus, you know.”

“I’ve known that for some time,” Jazz said. “How did you find out?”

“His eyes. They aren’t the same.” Bumblebee shook his head. “I think Prowl is going to plan an attack anyway. He’s too lost in revenge to see what our people need.”

“There are things I can do.” Jazz’s dark eyes met Bumblebee’s. “You just leave it to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: We meet a Seer of Caminus, Hot Shot finally makes an appearance, and the history of Cybertron is revealed. 
> 
> If there was something you liked or even a question you have, don't hesitate to shout it out below! Also, I am taking recommendations for a frozen heart themed playlist. I would love to hear your thoughts!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments--they really do make me happy when I read them, and that's so important right now. 
> 
> This episode could be alternatively titled: _Stop! History Time!_
> 
> Warnings for slut shaming, misogyny, and war crimes in this chapter. The next few chapters are long, much longer than I've been trying for in this one. I've been attempting to keep chapters between 5,000-6,000 words, but some sections, despite editing, could not be made shorter.

**CHAPTER EIGHT: A SUDDEN BURST OF SUNLIGHT**

In the morning, Starscream made sure to stop and stretch on the landing before proceeding down the stairs to the main dining room. Apparently the Seer wanted both him and Windblade before--her? Him? Them?--before they left to go south. The southern tip of Caminus, according to Windblade, got truly terrible storms in the winter and a Seer’s presence was required.

Windblade was already seated at one of the tables with a cup of tea and some breakfast meat in front of her. He sat down next to her and eyed her plate. “What is that?”

She looked down at her plate. “Fish. With rice. Want some? It’s simple.”

“You really do like simple fare,” he accused.

“When I’m traveling, I do.” She picked up a bit of fish with rice with her chopsticks and popped it into her mouth. After she chewed and swallowed, she said, “What with how the road can be awful, if I don’t eat prickly foods, then my stomach doesn’t get prickly.”

“Prickly.”

She shrugged. “Has your stomach ever been sensitive and you decided to eat or not eat something because it might poke your stomach?”

“Not quite in those terms, no.” He rested his chin on his hand and gestured for some tea. One of the servers brought him tea, and he murmured a request for some more of the porridge from the night before. The server nodded and vanished.

Windblade straightened as someone in dark blue robes sat down across from them. The color drained slightly from Windblade’s skin, leaving her looking sallow and exhausted. “Your Excellency,” she said.

The person smiled, showing a gap between their teeth. They had a face full of scars, and when they placed their hands on the table, their hands were just as scarred. They said something inCamien, and the color returned to Windblade’s cheeks. “Lord Starscream, may I present Her Excellency, the First Seer of Caminus. She...has no name, once she takes on her duties.”

Starscream inclined his head. “Your Excellency.”

The Seer said something else, and the server brought forth the tea pot. Windblade cleared her throat. “She wants to read the tea leaves for you.” The Seer said something sharply, and Windblade added, “For both of us, but you first.”

“She can read tea leaves?” He turned to Windblade. “I thought you said Seers read wind currents, or some such.”

The Seer asked Windblade something, who replied in equally fast Camien. The Seer barked with laughter, her voice as weathered as the rest of her. She told Windblade something, and Windblade ducked her head to hide a smile. “She says that she and other Seers spend so much time gazing for what could be, that they begin to see more than just storms. She’s the First Seer because she has the most skill.”

“And how would she read our tea leaves?”

Windblade poured them both tea. “We need to drink it before the leaves have time to settle, and then flip the cup over onto the saucer. Whatever’s left in the cup will be read.” She sipped her tea, her eyes daring him to argue. Apparently this Seer reading the leaves for them was important.

Starscream barely managed to contain his rolled eyes, but at that hour of the morning, with his face and hands still faintly itching from the night before (they were itching because he thought they _should_ be, not because they actually were, whatever Windblade put in that cream of hers worked wonders), it wasn’t worth the argument that would make him look bad. The tea was hot but not scalding, and he gulped it down as artfully as he could.

Then he did as instructed and handed the cup to the Seer.

The Seer tilted her head and the cup, turning it around. Starscream grew slightly uncomfortable under her scrutiny and was about to say something when she finally put the cup down and examined him.

“Waves,” Windblade translated, “mean that you’re on a journey. You don’t know where you’ll end up, but,” she wavered for a moment, “you know what you want the outcome to be?” The Seer murmured something, and Windblade brightened with fresh understanding. “You carry a weight that you’ve carried for so long that you’ve forgotten how much it weighs. It remains because you allow it to. Your journey is to eliminate it, once and for all.”

Starscream tensed. “And how,” he said quietly, in his most dangerous tone of voice, “would you know that I _allow_ it?”

The Seer laughed again.

“Princeling,” Windblade said, her eyes transmitting her horror at the Seer’s lack of respect, “I have faced storms that have destroyed twenty feet of solid stone and waves that have broken apart the strongest ships. I must answer to your power one day and perhaps even soon, but it is not today and you waste your energy snarling at me.”

Starscream scowled at her. “My question still stands.”

The Seer picked up his right hand, the one still itching faintly. She examined his palm and then, “No curse is...impossible to break. The magic may last past someone’s death, but there is no way to curse a person forever...or a land.” The Seer looked directly at Windblade then, who flushed but continued the translation, “When a curse lasts for so long as it has with you, part of it is because it is _allowed_ to. You have forgotten the worth of what it keeps from you.” The Seer patted his hand and then folded it in.

She took Windblade’s cup and they had a conversation in Camien. Starscream wanted to know what was making Windblade’s eyes shimmer with grief and maybe even anger, since she had heard about his curse, but he couldn’t follow the language. Camien tones sounded so strange to his ear, since there were more consonants than Cybertronian. It made every statement sound angry, even if it wasn’t.

Windblade excused herself from the table, dabbing at her eyes. She muttered something to Starscream about seeing to her things, and she vanished before she started sobbing outright.

The Seer helped herself to the pot of tea. “She doesn’t like what she knows to be true,” the Seer croaked at him.

He stared. “You can speak Cybertronian?”

“Of course.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Then why…” Then he understood, and he glared at her. The Seer shrugged at his consternation.

“Your journeys are intertwined,” she said. “But your goals are different. You must master yourself and your power. She? She must learn her place in this world. It is not where she wants it to be, but it is a place where she will do the most good. It is the highest calling, to be called to serve others.” The Seer’s eyes flashed with the strength of a hundred storms. “Do not forget that, my lord.”

“You called me princeling,” he said. “How did you…?”

“We all carry our histories,” the Seer said. “Some are more visible than others. You might not _feel_ it, but you have never stopped grieving Vos.” She stood. “I must attend my own calling. You will be safe here.” She jerked her head at the stairs where Windblade vanished to. “She may not.”

Starscream watched as the Seer wound her way through the room and exited, and the server brought his breakfast. He tucked in and wondered just how much he could trust the village soothsayer.

Well, he amended, the way Windblade spoke of her made the Seer much more than the village soothsayer. His skepticism still stood, however. According to one seer, when he was young, he should’ve died during the war, and there he was.

He shrugged it off. He had no obligation to follow the Seer’s advice, in any case.

He was still musing over the Seer’s words an hour later, when his traveling party convened at the front of the wayhouse. Windblade’s face was set in unhappy lines as the carriage was loaded with their luggage, and he ambled over to her in the hopes of some free entertainment. He jerked his head at the carriage. “What, did you want to ride?”

“Yes,” she said curtly.

He raised his eyebrows. “That wouldn’t have added to your consequence.”

“If I need material trappings to make it clear my rank, I am _clearly_ doing something wrong,” she snapped.

He looked her over. It was true that her robes--dark blue and black that were suitable for traveling--were simple but made of excellent fabric. She wore no rings or bracelets, but there was the glimmer of a gold chain at her throat. Her hair was pinned in a braided coil, and she looked….severe, no doubt helped by her scowl. But no, he couldn’t think of anyone who would mistake her for anything other than what she was. It was the way she held herself and expected to be obeyed.

“My brother’s insisted on it,” she relented after a moment. “He said via a messenger that taking the common road would take too much time, so we’re using a carriage and the royal road. It will cut the travel time in half.”

“And that means…?”

“We should get there a little before lunch. Had we taken the common road, we would have reached the city walls a little after dusk, which means we would have had to wait until tomorrow morning to enter the city. The guards close the city gates every night at sunset.”

She didn’t travel well, he guessed. Another night’s sleep would have helpful before she had to face her brother, but instead she would be there, grumpy and irritated, that afternoon. “A concern about smuggling?”

She shrugged. “Many illegal or illicit behaviors take place in the cover of darkness. It doesn’t hurt to take precautions.”

“Most would be grateful for less time on the road,” he remarked.

She rolled her eyes at him, but discreetly. “‘Most’ have never spent long periods of time in a small area with my ladies.”

“You didn’t seem to mind them earlier.”

“Earlier, they were concerned about the work we were doing and were actually contributing knowledge and questions to our work. Now they’re just concerned about...themselves.” She drooped slightly. “I’m never good company on my immediate return home, my lord. Forgive me.”

He assisted her into the carriage, with Lord Afterburner following close behind. He looked better that morning than he had the previous night, but he was immersed in what looked like diplomatic missives and was uninterested in conversation. Starscream sat down across from Windblade as her ladies settled themselves in the remaining space. He looked up at the small shelf above their heads and spotted a few games. “Do you play backgammon, Your Highness?”

“Better than I play cards,” she said.

She wasn’t lying, to his consternation. As the carriage went up (and up and up and _up_ \--Starscream wondered if the royal palace of Caminus was seated literally on top of a mountain), they played several games to pass the time. He won the first two games easily, and upon her opening move in the third, he realized she had _let_ him win to better study his strategy.

The fifth game was the tiebreaker, and they both agonized over their moves and settled the small lapboard around each curve, to prevent their pieces from being moved accidentally.

Just as they reached the palace gates, he managed to roll the exact number to get his last piece off the board. “Ha!” he exclaimed in genuine triumph. “You do play well, but I reign supreme.”

“I shall be challenging you for that, no doubt,” she said with a smirk that looked disturbingly like his. “Night falls quickly here and I prefer to spend my evenings reading, sewing, or playing games.”

He shook his head with rare good humor as the carriage came to a stop.

Windblade’s good humor vanished when they entered the large entrance hall within the palace and saw a tall man (made taller by standing at the top of the stairs) in a red and cloth-of-gold robe. He smiled when he saw them, and Windblade bowed to him once she and Starscream had reached the top of the stairs. “Lord Starscream, may I introduce my brother, Prince Hot Shot? My brother, this is Lord Starscream of Cybertron.”

“Delighted,” Hot Shot said. He and Starscream bowed to each other, and then he turned on Windblade. “Thunderblast is waiting for you, dear sister, in your chambers. I believe she mentioned something about seamstresses. You’ve monopolized Lord Starscream quite enough, wouldn’t you agree?”

The sugar in Hot Shot’s voice set Starscream’s teeth on edge--and Windblade’s too, by the look of it. Still, she bowed. “By your leave.”

“Off you go,” Hot Shot said. “Lord Afterburner, once you’ve turned in all your reports, Mother and I have agreed that you deserve a rest. Just be sure to be back here for the new year,” he wagged his finger, and Lord Afterburner bowed before he too departed.

Hot Shot threw a companionable arm over Starscream’s shoulders and dropped the saccharine behavior. “I thought you might be sick of the company of the ladies,” he said. “So I’d like you to take this afternoon to relax at the spa.”

“The spa,” Starscream repeated. That was not the first place he would have thought of to escape the company of ladies.

“Indeed,” Hot Shot grinned. “It’s the spa used by my guard and the palace knights. The ladies have their own in their wing of the palace, so we’ll be left in peace from their chattering. Your luggage will be brought to your guest suite. Now, are you hungry?”

“Not really,” Starscream said, slightly bemused at how comfortable Hot Shot was with reordering his guest’s life. He wished Hot Shot would remove his arm.

“Even better! After you get worked on, you’ll be dying for something, I promise.” He squeezed Starscream’s shoulder. “Tough journey, was it?”

“Not easy,” Starscream admitted.

“I personally never travel over water well,” Hot Shot confided. “No one is my family does. Too much fire in the blood, my mother says.”

Windblade didn’t have trouble on the ship, Starscream reflected. But if it suited this prince to believe that, who was he to prove him wrong? “We hit a storm on the way here.”

“Storms can be terrifying at this time of year. I do wonder why Windblade insisted on coming now, instead of waiting for spring.” Hot Shot’s eyes were blue like his sister’s, and they rested on Starscream in a vaguely accusatory manner.

“I believe she needs counsel, and apparently your New Year is the best time to ask,” Starscream said as tactfully as he could.

Hot Shot rolled his eyes but dropped that particular line of questioning.

The spa, when they reached it, was designed as a wheel, with the baths in the center and each spoke performing a different task. Hot Shot directed Starscream over to the small changing rooms, and from there Starscream was entrusted to a blank-faced attendant. “Give him the works,” Hot Shot said. “He’s been spending a lot of time with my sister, after all.” He winked at Starscream and wandered off to his own attendant.

‘The works’ apparently meant a rub-down, his hair washed and treated, a bath as the treatment worked through his hair, and then his hair rinsed. His loose hair curled around his ears to his irritation, and the entire session was completed with a massage.

Hot Shot joined him on the opposite table as Starscream’s attendant went to work on his shoulders. The entire experience, instead of being relaxing, only shredded his nerves. The spa, with its population of knights and other small lords, was loud, and Starscream didn’t like to be touched by so many strangers.

“Relax,” his attendant reproved, and Starscream attempted to obey.

“So,” Hot Shot said.

“Yes?” Starscream said through clenched teeth. The attendant was working on one of the knots that had bothered his shoulder for _years_ , and it hurt.

“Lord Afterburner sent a message on ahead that you want a betrothal to my sister as a way to seal our treaty.”

“Marriages are traditionally a method of doing so,” Starscream said.

“Yes, but why my sister? Has she seduced you? It wouldn’t be the first time. You shouldn’t try to marry her for something she gives away so freely.”

The attendant chose at that moment to lean all of his weight onto the point of his elbow, and Starscream’s answer was swallowed by an involuntary gasp of pain. As much as the shooting, throbbing pain of blood entering the muscles hurt, it gave him a moment to pull together an answer. “Seduction isn’t the point,” Starscream said once he could speak without screaming. “My country needs rebuilding, and she can help.”

“Yes, but do you _like_ her?”

Starscream felt the beginning of contempt twist through him. Hot Shot couldn’t decide how much he cared about his sister, could he? “Of course,” he managed to reply. “And yes, I would enjoy the seduction, but that isn’t the point.”

Hot Shot considered him. “Well then. I can happily send her off with you then. She’s gone uncourted for all her life, which is why she plays the wanton, you know. I’ve wanted her married off for some time, but Mother was insistent that we only marry her off to someone she could stand.”

And wasn’t _that_ telling. “So you are willing to help me?” Starscream grunted.

“I’ll plead your case with Mother, but _you_ have to win over my sister.” Hot Shot winked at him. “I’m sure you can manage.”

\--

Windblade’s mother, the Mistress of Flame, was wise. She didn’t inflict her presence on Starscream until the second night of his arrival to the royal palace of Caminus. That second day was spent in Hot Shot’s company, who was apparently delighted to get to know his prospective brother-in-law. Starscream was less delighted but it was interesting to see the history of the royal palace. Hot Shot would _not stop_ bragging about it.

“This room is the private dining room,” Hot Shot remarked as they entered the private room in all their finery. Well, all of _Starscream’s_ finery; Hot Shot had so much finery. “My mother prefers it for dinners unless a feast or noble dinner _has_ to happen. She doesn’t like to waste time and resources on a useless multi-course meal.”

“I can understand that,” Starscream said. He looked over the table, a finely carved piece of maple. There were ripples and color shifts, and he rubbed his hand along the top of the polished table. “This is a lovely table.”

Hot Shot waved his hand in dismissal. “It’s a family piece, I have no idea how old it is.” His face brightened as the doors opened and someone dressed sumptuously in cloth-of-gold entered. “Thunderblast, my lady wife! Lord Starscream, may I introduce my consort, Lady Thunderblast?”

Starscream trailed after Hot Shot and bowed to the woman. Thunderblast was lovely, with dark hair and dark eyes. The cloth-of-gold outshined her, however, which was a shame. Red or dark blue would have brought sparkle to her light brown skin, but the point of cloth-of-gold was to outshine, he supposed.

Behind her was Windblade, her eyes downcast. She wore a crimson robe with a black and cloth-of-gold sash. Her hair had been teased into large, practically free-standing loops, and he bowed to her also. “Princess Windblade.”

There was a thought. Why was the wife of the prince a consort but his sister a princess? Shouldn’t his wife be a princess also?

“Lord Starscream,” she said. She looked miserable, and he offered his arm as they went to the table. Hot Shot and Thunderblast were already seated on the right side of the table, with Hot Shot near the head and Thunderblast on his left side.

“Are you all right?” he inquired in an undertone.

“I’ve just spent the last day and a half with my _dear_ sister-in-law,” she said through a polite smile. “I’m fine.”

Starscream helped her into her chair, as that was the expectation, and sat down to her left, across from Hot Shot. The table was set with several dishes, all in a white porcelain with gold edging. There were chopsticks set upon matching rests to the right of the setting, and tea cups were turned over, awaiting tea.

“It’s the set we use when we’re not entertaining,” Windblade told him under the cover of Hot Shot and Thunderblast’s chatter. “I’m a little surprised, actually.”

“Why?” Starscream started to ask, but then the door at the other end of the room slid open--Starscream still couldn’t decide if he liked the sliding doors over closing doors--and an incredibly tall person stepped through. From the ornate coronet that appeared almost as a crest to the long-handled hammer, Starscream guessed this was the enigmatic Mistress of Flame.

Everyone had stood up when she entered, and her eyes flicked over them before she draped her cloak over the stand near the door. The hammer she rested against the wall--there was some kind of pedestal she placed the butt of the handle into--and then the coronet went to the top of the small cabinet. Without the trappings of her title, she looked almost like every other older noble woman Starscream had known: severe, with expensive jewelry to prove her status without dripping with jewels, and her clothing was fine, but not in the way Thunderblast’s was. The Mistress of Flame had nothing to prove.

“Please, sit,” she said as she joined them at the head of the table. “Introductions are not necessary.” She seated herself and watched them as they did the same.

Up close, Starscream saw that her eyes were the color of gold. All of her children had blue eyes, so their father--where _was_ he?--must have been the bearer of that particular trait. Windblade was rigid with surprise next to him, and when he brushed her elbow with his, she jumped like his elbow had been a live wire.

“Hello, Mother,” Windblade said, striving for politeness.

The Mistress of Flame smiled, and her severity diminished. “Daughter,” she said. “I understand your trip was largely uneventful?” The servants came forward with bowls of soup that smelled wonderful, and no one picked up their spoon until the Mistress of Flame did.

“Largely,” Windblade said with a small laugh. “Lord Starscream suffered a slight accident as he assisted our sailors in battening down the ship during a storm, but other than that, I would say it went fine. Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”

“A slight accident,” Starscream confirmed. The soup was salty, but he had been drinking water and tea for the last day and a half, and he was ready for salty. “Princess Windblade mended me just fine.”

Across the table, Thunderblast’s eyebrows went up. “ _Windblade_ mended you? I thought you had a healer with you, sister.”

Windblade shook her head. “I have been trained,” she said pointedly. “It was minor.”

“She’s too modest,” Starscream said in an effort to taunt her--politely. A servant placed a steaming teapot on the table and backed out. “I had two broken fingers and a nasty head wound. Without her, I certainly would have been scarred. Again.”

Thunderblast eyed him speculatively.

“I am proud that your training has served you well,” the Mistress of Flame said to Windblade. “I think that you should take a healer with you when you return to Cybertron, however. Velocity, perhaps. She returned from her trip to the South a week ago.”

Windblade nodded. “Yes, Mother.”

“Windblade,” Thunderblast broke in. She gifted Windblade with a smile, and beside him, Windblade stilled. “Won’t you pour the tea?”

Tension rose between Windblade and Thunderblast for half a moment. Whatever Thunderblast had requested, it was an insult and was intended as such. Then Windblade broke the tension by smiling faintly. “Yes, of course. _Dear_ sister.”

Starscream glanced at the Mistress of Flame, who was eating her soup serenely. Did she allow the disrespect to Windblade? If so, _why_?

Windblade stood and grasped the teapot, and she began to pour tea for the Mistress of Flame, then Starscream, then Hot Shot, and then...and then she filled her own cup before Thunderblast’s. She placed the teapot down, that same faint smile on her face. Thunderblast’s face darkened--insult had been paid for insult, but she dared not speak against it in front of her mother-in-law.

“So tell me,” the Mistress of Flame said once the awkwardness had passed, “why have you two come here in time for the New Year?”

“We’re attempting to solve a problem,” Starscream said as their empty soup dishes were removed. “But the problem requires guidance that Iacon--for the moment--lacks. It was the Princess’ idea to come here, and quite frankly this is the first vacation I’ve had in years. Storms notwithstanding, I’m enjoying it.”

The Mistress of Flame’s lips twisted into a smile. “Excellent. Windblade?”

“The years of war have taken their toll on the ground surrounding Iacon,” Windblade said, folding her hands in her lap. “I believe it will take strong magic to revive, but as I have no experience with immediate post-war environmental circumstances, I seek guidance from the Torchbearers and our library.”

Starscream didn’t allow his face to show the lie Windblade had just told. He didn’t understand why she was acting so circumspect, but he suspected it had to do with her brother.

The Mistress of Flame nodded slowly. “Of course. And, my lord Starscream, if any of our books can assist you, I will be happy to order copies made and have them shipped to Iacon.”

Starscream thought of the bare library in the palace, once one of the wonders of the learned world. “I might just take you up on that, Your Grace.”

Dinner passed largely without any incident. Thunderblast picked at Windblade, who barely responded, but he was a little confused when a large dish of some kind of stew was placed on the table. They had all had small dishes of rice, and he gazed at the stew. He didn’t recognize any of the things in it, but that might have been because of the color of the broth that turned all food within it the same shade.

“It’s a net stew, my lord,” Windblade told him.

“I’m sorry?” he said politely.

Windblade smiled at him and picked up the ladle. “It’s a stew for all kinds of fish and shellfish. There’s,” she peered into it, “mussels, oysters, scallops, salmon, and haddock at least. May I?”

He allowed her to place a ladle-full serving onto his plate. Up close, he could smell ginger and garlic. “And then what?”

“You can mix some of your rice with it, or not,” she said as she served herself. “Personally, it’s one of my favorites. We only eat it in the winter.”

“Our food tastes are seasonal,” Hot Shot told him. “Eating witch-grown fruits and vegetables can be...unhealthy over time.”

“There’s nothing to prove that,” Windblade muttered. In a louder voice, she said, “It’s easier to spend magic on what is useful at the time, instead of wasting it. We have extensive greenhouses, after all.”

“Right, you’ve mentioned them.” Starscream tasted the stew and was pleased at the taste. Then again, he did love garlic. “Could I see them? I’d like to see what Camien greenhouses look like to get a better idea for how to plan ours.”

“I’d be happy to show you,” Windblade promised.

The Mistress of Flame was reserved, and he couldn’t get a read on her all through dinner. She ate sparingly, but watched her children like a hawk. He couldn’t exactly blame her for that--Thunderblast’s poor behavior made him wonder just how Hot Shot had persuaded the Mistress of Flame to allow the marriage.

Windblade remained tense, and Hot Shot ignored her almost entirely, except to smirk whenever Thunderblast landed a barb about Windblade’s lack of style, her poor grooming, or the fact that she apparently needed Thunderblast’s assistance desperately.

That woman, Starscream thought as Windblade refilled his tea cup, had clearly never worked a day in her life, and she passes judgement on a woman who _did?_

Damn, he _must_ be fond of Windblade. He was rarely indignant on others’ behalf.

Dinner ended officially when the Mistress of Flame stood up. They all copied her, and she said, “I have an early day tomorrow. I bid you good night.”

Starscream blinked, a little shocked. Wasn’t he supposed to have some kind of meeting with her? She would have to set it, he knew, but what was the point of this intimate dinner without that invitation?

“Would you like to play a game of ball?” Hot Shot demanded of his sister.

Windblade shook her head and hid a yawn. “I’m still recovering,” she said. “I’d rather go to bed myself.”

“I will escort you,” Starscream said. _Anything_ to get away from Hot Shot for a bit.

Windblade flashed him a look of panic, almost, but her shoulders straightened before she bowed. They took leave of her brother, and during the first corridor, they were silent. Once they turned, Starscream asked, “So does Thunderblast always criticize you?”

Windblade nodded. Away from the poison of her brother, she looked tired and drawn. “A princess,” Windblade quoted, “is a leader of the court, not of peasants. She must look the part. And so on and so forth. Hot Shot wasn’t quite so bad when he married her, and she was almost sweet at the beginning. They bring out the worst in each other.”

“I wish they weren’t so poisonous.”

Windblade turned one of her true smiles to him. “I will manage,” she assured him quietly. “I always have. I am still my brother’s heir, something that bothers him and Thunderblast to no end, but they are unable to change that circumstance.”

He raised his brows. That was new information. Once their betrothal was approved--and after that dinner, Starscream didn’t doubt that the Mistress of Flame would approve it, if only to protect her eldest child--Windblade would be removed from the line of succession. No wonder Hot Shot wanted her married off. “What happened with the tea?” he asked.

“Typically, the one who pours the tea is one of least rank at the table.”

“Ah. And the last to be served…?”

“Again, the one of the least rank.” Windblade shrugged. “Thunderblast really shouldn’t try that with me. She’s angry that she isn’t of equal rank with me, but the one who marries the heir is _always_ a consort. My mother passed a law not too long after Hot Shot was married to turn that custom into law.”

“So your mother doesn’t approve of her, either?”

“Hot Shot went away for a summer when he was seventeen,” Windblade said, “to learn some of the ruling arts from one of Mother’s councillors. He returned with a bride. Mother was furious with him, one of the few times that I have seen her that angry at him. She had been attempting to negotiate a marriage between him and Eukaris, since my work there had been so well-received, and he completely undid that.”

Starscream whistled quietly.

“Exactly,” Windblade said with grim satisfaction. “I suspect that Mother has put it into her will that that law will be upheld after her death. Thunderblast has been working on Hot Shot to get him to support its’ repeal, but if it is in her will,” Windblade shrugged. “Thunderblast hasn’t made herself popular with Parliament, either.”

“Who _is_ popular with Parliament?” It was meant as a joke, but Windblade fell silent.

“Me,” she said finally. “I am. That burns Hot Shot to no end.”

So jealousy was Hot Shot’s motivation for loathing his sister, and his active hatred of her had turned his wife against Windblade as well. Starscream could sympathize--it was Megatron’s jealousy that had nearly killed him. “Well,” he said. “You’ll only have to put up with it for a few weeks more. Then we’ll return to Cybertron.”

They stopped in front of a door, and Windblade turned to him. In the candlelight, her eyes were sad. “I will never escape it. He’ll hate me until the day one of us dies.”

Starscream picked up both of her hands and kissed her knuckles. “Well, _I_ don’t hate you.”

“My lord,” she said, a little flustered. “If you keep doing that, I’ll suspect you mean something more by it.”

“And if I did?” Starscream murmured. “Would that be so bad?”

The color drained from Windblade’s face and she took her hands from his. “You’ve been talking to my brother,” she breathed. “You--you _believe_ him. Good night, my lord.” She vanished behind her door, and Starscream frowned. What did he do wrong?

‘ _She plays the wanton, my sister.’_

Oh dear.

\--

_December 5, 1036 AP_

Windblade poured herself a cup of tea as she examined the books the librarian had brought her. She had requested all the maps of Iacon from the last two centuries, of which there were three, and then all of the records of the Primes. She had vaguely remembered some journals that had belonged to the Primes, but the date of the maps would tell her _which_ journal she required.

The library was one large room, separated into two main sections. The first was the library itself, but the second was a large work area, normally used by the aides of the lords of Parliament, but Parliament was on break to celebrate the coming New Year and she had it to herself. She had ordered for three tables to be pulled together, and once that was done, she laid the maps end-to-end and looked for differences.

On the second map, dated 579 AP, she found it.

The first map had come from the very beginning of the reign of the Primes of Cybertron. Parts of it were still wild--Praxus and the entire South, to start with--but Iacon had always been the seat of the Primes and their Senate. The first map showed a large river that curled around Iacon and turned it into an island. It explained with the city was so high above the land around it; a river could be greater protection than all the walls in the world.

The second map, dated two hundred years later, showed less than half a river. It was a stream, really, that curled around one side of the city, and she could tell it was drying up. By the latest map, dated right before the war, the river was gone.

Rivers didn’t just disappear. A suspicion was brewing in the back of her mind, but she needed more research for it to be confirmed. _Windy_ , Hot Shot taunted from the back of her mind, _why look into what was? All that matters is what_ is.

It always matters, she mused. How could you know how to solve a problem without knowing what caused the problem in the first place? How could you not be curious?

For someone who loved to read as much as her brother did, he had two weaknesses--he lacked the kind of intellectual curiosity that drove education, and he hated libraries. When he was young, he was afraid of them--he said he could hear the books whispering and it terrified him. In an attempt for them to get along better, Windblade had tried to introduce him to the stacks, but he was determined--libraries were no place for him. Whatever books he wanted to read, he ordered the librarians to bring to him. When it was clear they would never get along, the library became her sanctuary. He would never bother her there. Perhaps the two were intertwined, what with his fear of libraries causing his lack of intellectual curiosity.

Thunderblast feared libraries less, but her mind was shallow. If Windblade was missing from her ‘guidance,’ it was Windblade who was selfish and catty, instead of that Windblade had greater issues to attend to than yet another dress fitting. Windblade’s wardrobe didn’t need updating; she was fine.

Windblade pushed her brother and his shrew of a wife from her mind. She had a greater problem at hand.

Two hundred years was a long time, in terms of documentation. There were three Primes who reigned during that time frame, and the fourth took over just after the second map had been completed. She took a gamble and decided that the river did not begin to dry up until after the first Prime, and so she found the journals of the second.

Halfway through it, she gave up in disgust. Nominus Prime was devoted to lavish parties and extensive games, and his journal was more of a pillow book. She had no desire to discover just what he preferred in bed.

The third, for Nova Prime, was more promising. He was very political from the start, and he noted how Nominus, in an effort to pay for the lifestyle he loved, had separated the populations into classes and taxed them heavily. They were taxed even more heavily if they chose to do something else--a healer deciding to become a glassmaker was one of Nova’s examples. At first, Nova was determined to bring back a certain sense of equality to his people. Magic happened to everyone, and someone in a family of healers could suddenly have war magic, after all.

Into the second journal, doubt began to creep into her mind regarding his intentions. His writing--this journal was not a copy, but a primary source--had changed from the smooth curling calligraphy to something more spiky and unpredictable. He was angry and afraid of ‘enemies’, that would destroy Cybertron from within. His social changes were not going well, and everyone was apparently opposing them, from the Senate who had grown fat and lazy under Nominus’ power (that she didn’t doubt), to the very serfs who had languished under the worst kind of oppression. Everyone was against him, he raged. Couldn’t they see that he was doing what he was doing for the greater good?

No one ever used the term ‘greater good’ in an actual positive sense.

Windblade placed a bookmark in the journal and went hunting for a specific text. It was called _The Early History of the Primes_ , and since it was a critical look at said Primes, Sentinel Prime had ordered that all copies be tracked down and burned. The refugee who had this copy had hidden it, fearing for her life, but she had said to one of the royal librarians in Windblade’s hearing that those who sought to suppress knowledge were evil.

Windblade wasn’t sure she agreed with that--there was plenty of knowledge that should be oppressed, such as which herbs, when prepared properly, caused internal hemorrhaging until the patient died--but the conviction with which the refugee had spoken it had stayed with Windblade for all her life.

The book was worn, but it opened easily and Windblade found the section regarding Nova Prime. She settled into one of the chairs around the fire and read, finding that Nova Prime had ascended the Primal Throne when the economy of Cybertron was in freefall. The changes Nominus Prime had wrought had drained the treasury until the state was practically bankrupt, and Nova Prime had to take on the burden of dealing with the mess.

At first, he did well. He appointed new taxes and minted new money (it devalued the currency by half, but Nova had promised it was a temporary measure and grumbling had been kept to a minimum) and undid some of the social customs Nominus had put in place. Others, however, he kept, too enamoured with free labor when the economy was struggling so badly.

He kept the social structure of the serfs, and that was where the problems began. The serfs, bound by their magical potential, chafed under his harsh rule. The treasury was recovering, but not quite fast enough for Nova. With rebellions beginning to break out across his small state, he looked for a way to soothe the people and to create ways for the serfs to feel pride in the work they were forced to do.

He set his heart on Praxus as a solution. The city, roughly 70 miles from Iacon to the Northwest, was close enough to make a campaign worthwhile. It would be easy to maintain the supply lines, and if he planned it right, the city would fall in the span of a summer. It was not a large city--not as large as Iacon had become, in any case--but it was already known for its university and school of law. Added to that, its artisanal pottery brought in a great deal of money to the city, and no doubt Nova Prime was drooling at the prospect.

He began the propaganda campaign during the winter, when the city was locked in by a frozen river and multiple blizzards, and he promised all sorts of things to his people--that the taking of Praxus would result in decent coinage again, that it would open up their agriculture, and that the people of Praxus would be lower than the serfs of Iacon, because they were not _of_ Iacon.

Windblade already saw the flaw in that particular line of reasoning.

In any case, the propaganda worked. All spring long, the serfs labored to grow food for the summer campaign while the smiths made weapons and armor. Windblade found it difficult to believe that Praxus had no warning of the attack, but apparently once the invasion was launched in late May of 496, the city was taken entirely by surprise and fell within two weeks. The armies of Nova Prime returned with the spoils of Praxus, triumphant at their easy victory.

It was when Praxus had to be integrated into the various territory of Cybertron that the problems of Nova Prime became apparent. Once he tasted one military victory, he wanted others, and all of the promises he had made fell to the wayside. With some of the Praxian military leaders he had humiliated in such a swift defeat, they planned other incursions to the surrounding cities--Polyhex, Altihex, and Nova even dreamed of bringing the wild South under the yoke of his rule.

Nova, the text admitted, did more than any other Prime to make the Cybertron that was now known, but it came at a heavy cost. Altihex had held out longer than any other city, nearly two whole seasons. Nova’s armies had been forced to retreat home in the face of the encroaching winter, and by the time Nova returned in late spring the following year, 872, rage had consumed him to the point of diverting all other attentions. With his rage breaking over his soldiers, they found the ability to break down the gates of Altihex in 45 days, and it was then that Nova made the mistake that would haunt him the rest of his life.

Nova cried ‘Havoc.’

Windblade had to stop reading for a moment. Caminus, by the grace of Solus, had been spared the military conflicts that had engulfed some of his neighbors like Cybertron and Carcer, but Windblade remembered hearing about the Praxian massacre of 1019. It had been the turning point in the Cybertronian civil war, when even neutral states like Altihex and Polyhex realized they would not be allowed to remain neutral.

The Decepticons had besieged Praxus for three long months, with food shortages, bad water, and disease stalking their camp. Praxus had been no better off, and finally the Decepticons found enough of a foothold to take the city. Maddened by their misfortunes, the Decepticon High Command had called ‘Havoc’ for their forces, allowing rampant murder, rape, and theft to engulf the city for the length of one full day, to allow their soldiers to sate their frustration. No Praxian made it out alive.

Supposedly, the commander who had given the command was Starscream.

After that moment passed, Windblade returned to her reading. Nova had allowed three days-- _three days!_ \--of utter lawlessness by his soldiers before he reinstated order. The bodies of the massacred were burned, to prevent anyone from knowing just what had taken place, and all of the survivors had their tongues cut out and were made slaves. There were not many survivors, and more would die in the months to come as a result of lasting injury and their slavery.

Nova promised stability and monetary rewards for Iaconians willing to settle and rebuild the ruined city, and serfs who had disliked their lot in life had jumped at the chance, taking Altihexian slaves back with them.

For the remaining years of his reign, all 8 of them, for Nova Prime died in his sleep in 880, he was plagued with horrible nightmares. He said he was being punished by Primus, but he was defiant to the end. If Primus had not wanted him to take over Altihex, he would swear at shadows and councillors alike, then why had he not stopped him?

He did, Windblade thought. Altihex held out for a long time, longer than anyone else. That was a sign.

There was so much more about the end of Nova’s reign, such as his increased reliance on magic, and the way he used his wars to punish his dissidents. By the end of his reign, there were many. Windblade put the book down and realized she was going to need notes. It would be easier to trace just what happened if she had a paper trail.

The shadows outside the library windows deepened as she scrawled notes of comparisons between Nova’s journals and _The Early History of the Primes._ When she got to the last few sections in the last journal, her heartbeat grew louder in her ears.

_‘Primus has been appearing in my dreams. He tells me that I am doing things wrong, that my people are his people too. I tell_ him _that if he’s so concerned for them, what exactly am I doing wrong? I am broadening Cybertron, bringing all of his people back into one fold.’_

Later: _‘Primus is getting angrier. He tells me if I don’t change, he will have to make a public show of his disapproval of my actions. That would empower my dissidents. I’ve instructed my counselors to hold back on the rehoming plan.’_

Then, one of the very last entries, after a list of everything the dissidents did to infuriate him, he mocked Primus, never a good plan, _‘Primus has stopped appearing in my dreams. He said a drought would come, to prove my wrongness as a Prime, but he forgets I have weather witches at my disposal. The river might be gone, but the water will remain.’_

Windblade tapped the table. Nova didn’t exactly say _when_ the river dried up, but from his journal and the dates of his dream arguments with Primus, she could sketch out a rough outline. It properly started naturally enough in the height of summer, when the spring floods had stopped, but then it had continued.

Something about the situation didn’t quite link up, however. There may have been a drought, she believed that, but the river couldn’t have disappeared entirely. Not with the amount of underground springs kept within the city.

Windblade stood up and went looking for that one text on the geological history of Caminus.

There was a whole section that combined geology and history. Solus had formed Caminus as her refuge when she fled Megatronus Prime, and so the geology in comparison to the places around it was...quirky. However, it did illustrate what happened when a Prime (not a ruling Prime, but an actual Prime) influenced land, and that was what she needed.

Ah, there it was.

Caminus was named for Solus’ loyal titan who had shielded her and protected her while she recovered from Megatronus’ attack. His name was attached to everything--the island Solus had forged, the capital city where Caminus had come to rest, his reward for serving Solus so faithfully.

And then the river that wound around the tall mountain and disappeared under it was named for him also. The royal palace of the Mistress of Flame was built over the river Cam, where it came out of the mountain and pooled into the lake that was at the center of the valley. The water was unnaturally warm because the mountain above might be dormant, but the fire beneath it still raged.

The river disappeared, Windblade thought, but Primus couldn’t bear to actually deprive his children of their necessary water just because their ruler was terrible. The river fed the springs, and the people survived. But beginning with Nova Prime, the Primes began to rely on magical means to ensure the climate patterns of Iacon continued to exist instead of changing how they lived and ruled.

The tapestry of Cybertronian history was becoming clearer. Nova Prime was the third of thirteen Primes, and by the time the fifth or sixth Prime existed, using weather witches to control the rains was natural and normal. Weather magic was common, even if it was only something like whistling up a slight rain. Weather witches working in concert could do tremendous things, and so they did.

But then the war came. Windblade tapped the table more furiously as she filled in the blank spaces with guesswork. Weather witches could be powerful and _useful_ for turning the tide of a battle--making the ground muddy with rain, spoiling the opposing side’s food, and so on. Naturally the first to be targeted and killed would be weather witches.

But enough survived to live under Megatron, Windblade corrected. Just enough to ensure the survival of the survivors with Iacon’s walls. But then Starscream took over and--what? His brother was a weather witch, but from it sounded like, he was the last. So what happened to them? From what Starscream had said, the problems with the climate had begun when he had taken over, and it was becoming increasingly clear that his hold on the city was dependent upon if he could bring the rain back.

There were still so many questions--why was it under Starscream and not Megatron that these problems had become so apparent? Why was it then that the magical drain became so obvious? Was it the war? In that case, why wasn’t it more clear directly after the war? Megatron had been terrible to his people. Just look at what had become of Starscream. If he would do that to his second-in-command, someone he had known for so long, what wouldn’t he do to others who had offended him?

“If you keep tapping the table, your fingers might just break.”

Windblade shrieked and toppled out of her chair. Her notes went flying (but thankfully not into the fire), and she mumbled invective to herself as she pushed herself to a standing position from her ungraceful pile on the floor. Starscream was leaning against a bookcase, the firelight deepening his smirk and making it look like it was almost a smile. “I startled you that badly, did I?”

“I was in my head,” she said as she smoothed down her dress.

“I can see that.” He moved over to see what she was working on. “Do you mean to add cartography to your skills?”

“I can’t draw,” she said, “so no. No, I was trying to understand what caused the reliance on weather magic.” She blinked. “How did you know I was here?”

“One of the servants mentioned it.” He tapped the map. “The river disappeared because of the drought of the 560s.”

“The drought was caused by Primus’ disapproval of Nova Prime,” she found her notes and gave them to him. While he perused them, she settled back down into her chair. “But the river didn’t entirely disappear.”

Starscream looked up at her. “It went underground?”

“It feeds the springs.” She yawned. “My apologies, my lord.”

Starscream ignored that and returned to her notes. “Right before the end, Megatron believed there was a coup planned to overtake him, with the remaining weather witches as the spearhead. The people would have followed the ones who provided the rain. In his paranoia, he instituted a purge.”

Windblade watched how the candle flames flickered in their glass housing. “A purge?”

Starscream laid her notes down gently on the table in a way that spoke of dormant rage. “He had them all executed in the town square,” he said tonelessly. “My brother was to be the last, but I--I refused to lose another brother to Megatron’s caprices. I attacked. I won.” He looked at her, and Windblade almost believed some ancient Prime was staring at her from behind Starscream’s eyes. “But not in time to spare the rest.”

She rose to go to his side, but then she hesitated. If it had been Lightbright or Afterburner, she would not have hesitated to hug them, but she still couldn’t read Starscream with any major success. She settled for placing her hand on his. He allowed it. “Is that why people think…?”

“Yes.” Starscream shook his head. “So this didn’t help much.”

“On the contrary,” she disagreed quietly. “I know what to do next.” She let go of him to start to put the books away, and he followed her.

“Oh?”

“In a few weeks, as part of the celebrations for the New Year, we hold a vigil in honor of the suffering of Solus Prime,” she explained. “The dark night of her soul, you could say. During that time, special requests can be made, and she can make herself visible to certain believers. If this drought was caused by an act of Primus, we--or rather, I--can inquire what can be done to reverse it.”

“That’s relying on a few specific things to fall into place.”

Windblade shrugged as she put the last book away. “It’s not as random as it sounds.”

“Do I get a better answer than that?” Starscream demanded.

She shook her head and hid a smile. “You’d only scoff. There’s no point.”

“You’re worse than your brother,” he complained.

She drew back, stung. “That’s unfair.”

“Well, maybe not,” he conceded. “But still. All he wants to talk about himself, and all you do is talk in riddles.”

“Hot Shot does do that,” she said. “I think the reason why he married Thunderblast is that she never disagrees with him.”

“And pretty enough, I suppose.” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “She’s pleased to be where she is, in any case.”

Windblade snorted as she gathered her notes away from the maps so that she could roll them up and put them away. “Was she foisted on you today?”

“Your brother is fond of hunting,” Starscream told her, almost mournful.

“He is. He feels that all of his time spent with scribes and accountants makes him appear less of a prince, so he throws himself into pursuits like hunting with his peers of the court.” Windblade tucked her notes into a bag and went to put away the maps. “I’ve never bothered with all of that.”

“But you have maintained multiple skillsets.”

“Out of boredom, not insecurity.” Windblade turned to him. “Would you like copies?”

“Copies?”

“Of the books and maps we have. Well, the maps are outdated now, things change so quickly, but I can have the books copied and sent to Iacon.” She tilted her head. “Weren’t you saying something about the lack of the library in Iacon?”

Starscream looked over the bookshelves. “ _All_ of them?”

“If you’d like. Our librarians have spells for copies. Of course, the copies won’t have illuminations, but that can always be added in.” Windblade twisted her fingers in her skirts. “Some of them were rescued from _your_ library before it was burned during the war. A handful of archivists and librarians made their way to us since we’re known for our library and it just made sense, so after copies are made we can return the originals…”

Starscream gave her a strange look, and she fell silent. Perhaps she had overplayed her hand, she had done that before, but she hadn’t minded so much then, but Override and Elita had been less scornful than Lord Starscream and she despised the clenching of her stomach.

“Do you ever expect anything in return?”

Her eyes snapped to meet his. “W-what?”

He gestured around him. “You barely know me, and yet you are incredibly generous, not only to me but my people. Why?”

“I--I was just o-offering, my lord,” she stuttered.

He moved closer to her. “Anyone else who made such an offer would have expectations or would have wanted to put me in the position where I owed them a favor. You just--offer it, without thinking, because you heard me remark once on the lack of books in our library.”

He was standing so close she could feel the slight chill that always emanated from him. “I don’t know what you want me to say, my lord,” she said quietly.

He shook his head. “How can you be _real_?”

She looked down at her hands. “I take up space?” she offered dubiously.

Starscream peered at her, and then to her delighted surprise, he cackled with good-natured laughter. His humor was infectious and she beamed at him, and then he wrapped an arm around her waist. “I refused to eat with your brother, so you can eat with me instead.”

“All right,” she agreed, and her stomach swooped with joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about 'Havoc': This was often used as a terror tool by the besieging enemy to whatever city was holding out. Sieges do not often work out long-term because of the trouble of keeping up supply lines and the disease that breeds in army encampments. Sieges work best when cities fall quickly--typically, the longer the siege, the less likely it is to work. That being said, if an army _does_ manage to take over a city after a long siege, the frustration and rage of the besieging army would boil over until the soldiers would go on a rampage, with killing, looting, and rape. 
> 
> What happened to Praxus, in canon, would be an example of this. 
> 
> This also existed because despite lofty, grandiose statements by the perpetrators of war, common soldiers did not go to war for religion or glory. They went to gain riches and (for some) to take advantage of the chaos to be as violent as possible. There are examples of this in history: the Siege of Jerusalem (1099 CE), Siege of Alexandria (48 BCE) that resulted in the burning of the library of Alexandria, Siege of Tyre (332 BCE), and the Siege of Caffa (1346 CE). The Siege of Caffa is particularly notorious, because this is the siege that introduced the Black Plague to Europe.
> 
> References to Havoc as a weapon of terror are included in works such as _Henry V._
> 
> As always, I adore your comments and thoughts. Please send me a few.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back by popular demand, it's the Mistress of Flame! _Yeaaahhhh!_ Some character motivations are revealed, and Lightbright bursts onto the scene. 
> 
> For the record, I don't have a little sister but I do have a little brother (although he's taller than me now and _loving it_ ), but Windblade and Lightbright's relationship is a little similar to Maria Antonia and her older sister Elisabeth (you might know Maria Antonia by her French moniker, Marie Antoinette), without the smallpox and a reversal of the religious orders. For those with younger sisters, I hope I got the sisterly byplay close to accurate.
> 
> Your comments matter a great deal to me, and I'm grateful for each and every one.

**CHAPTER NINE: GREEN AND GROWING THINGS**

Afterburner leaned back into his chair as the Mistress of Flame stared out the windows that dominated her workspace. She was dressed as simply as she ever was, with her cloak, crown and hammer at rest next to her, but there was no denying her authority. “She feels she has a purpose in Iacon. That purpose is lacking here.”

“But is marriage to a known volatile the best course of action for her?” The Mistress of Flame’s fingers tapped the windowsill impatiently. “I do not believe he could make her happy. Work cannot be enough. There must be emotional fulfillment as well.”

Afterburner took a few moments to formulate his thoughts. “Lord Starscream’s fundamental flaw is the push-pull dynamic of his survival instincts against his evolving knowledge of what is required to build his country. At times, he must sacrifice to accomplish his goals, but in order to survive what he has, he must never willingly give up power or ground gained. Additionally, he has a temper. These are all concerns.”

“And yet?”

“Is he worse than her current circumstances?” Afterburner asked bluntly. “Windblade seeks to accommodate and compromise-- _except_ when she sees something as utterly necessary. Her own temper is managed. Marriage to the Lord of Cybertron will give her influence in international affairs, more influence than what she currently possesses.” Because Hot Shot was so changeable and so apt to be petty. “She would bring a certain respect and dignity to the Lord of Cybertron, since she is so well regarded.”

“And what would Lord Starscream provide her?”

“Stability.” Afterburner met the Mistress of Flame’s burning gaze. “Constant travel is difficult for her. She wants to find a place to make hers, to make it a home. You’ve said it yourself--Caminus is too small for her. There will always be issues here that will keep her from setting down roots.”

“And what if this marriage does not work?”

“All marriages run that risk, particularly political ones. I have suspicions that Lord Starscream is willing to make it work.”

“Do you believe there is affection for her?”

“There could be,” Afterburner said after a moment. “He does not show affection publicly, not even to his brother. There are potential reasons for that, but I cannot speak with any certainty to what they are.”

The Mistress of Flame returned to looking out the window onto the extensive gardens below. “I want to interview him myself before I make a decision.”

Afterburner nodded. “I can’t imagine otherwise.” Hot Shot’s decision to marry Thunderblast had rankled the Mistress of Flame so badly, not only because it was the ruin of months’ long negotiations, but also because the Mistress of Flame was denied the chance to run her own investigation into whether Thunderblast was a worthy candidate for the heir of Caminus.

“I want Lightbright present also,” the Mistress of Flame said. “Windblade is far more honest with her than with me.”

“I am not certain that the two have had the chance to speak yet.”

“Arrange it. I want to be sure I’m making the best decision I can, and I can only do that when I have all the information.” The Mistress of Flame turned back to Afterburner. “If it is agreed, it will send a message to the surrounding states, as well as the disparate political factions within Cybertron. I want to know if it is a cost we can survive.”

“I will speak to the other ambassadors.”

For a moment, the Mistress of Flame looked like a mother, instead of a political powerhouse. Her face creased with concern and her eyes were hooded. “I just want her to be happy. Is that so unrealistic?”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” Afterburner assured her. “Would you like me to assemble a staff for her?”

The Mistress of Flame flicked a hand at him. “Do it.”

“By your leave, Your Grace.”

Once her most trusted ally had left, the Mistress of Flame retrieved a small silver key from the false bottom of the first drawer of her desk. With it in hand, she walked to the portrait of her mother and opened the frame to show a wrought silver safe behind it. She inserted the key and turned it, and when it opened she pulled two heavy scrolls of vellum from the safe and closed the door.

In general, the Mistress of Flame was not given to flights of fancy. The Torchbearers claimed to scry through flame, but the Mistress of Flame had never trusted her future to something so changeable. Instead, she used the stars.

Her thealogy preached that as Primus and Unicron shaped the world, so did they the skies, and the alignment of the stars and planets and the patterns they fell into were communications from Primus to his children below. Solus herself was a star-reader and her original design for her Temple was to echo the placement of the stars she had been created under.

The Mistress of Flame unrolled both sheets of heavy vellum and examined them. Star-reading by nature was chancy, even with Solus’ guide to translate them. The placement of the stars and the planets at the time of birth or other major events wasn’t the problem; it was in understanding the relationships they made with each other where the treachery waited.

At the time of Windblade’s birth, there had been a comet--the Lady’s Skirt, it was called--that had changed the delicate relationships between constellations and planets. Windblade was born under the mermaid, that sign of empathy and creativity. On one chart, the Lady’s Skirt had changed all the positive relationships--the trines and sextiles had taken on more negative aspects, while the squares and oppositions had only become further engrained. Now that Windblade was approaching her thirtieth birthday, the Mistress of Flame knew that this first chart was false.

So she turned to the second chart. The moon was under the sign of the sunflower, but Windblade’s ascendant was the book. For all that her primary sign was water, she was surrounded by earth. It created a certain amount of tension in her chart, but with the Lady’s Skirt in play, it reversed some of the relationships, turning oppositions into trines and conjunctions.

The personality traits had long since borne out--Windblade was emotionally reserved, deeply attached to whatever or whomever had managed to ensnare her emotions, with a quicksilver temper that was, over time, mastered. She instinctively understood how to get what she needed, once she knew what she needed.

Where the chart was less clear was where Windblade was destined to go. Windblade had been born with the Forge’s Mark upon her, that sign that she had been chosen by Solus to inherit. Yet once Lightbright was born, the sign had faded somewhat. To the Mistress of Flame, that meant that Windblade was destined to rule, but not necessarily in Caminus. When the marriage offer had come from Carcer nearly eight years ago, the Mistress of Flame had almost agreed--Windblade would rule, side by side, with Elita-One. But something stayed her hand. It had not seemed right, and once Windblade had returned from Carcer, heartbroken and changed, that the Mistress of Flame knew she had been correct to turn down the offer. It was not the right place for her daughter.

But was Cybertron? It was still a country in turmoil. Lord Starscream ruled Iacon, that much could not be denied, but the northern reaches of the territory were held by the Autobots, a faction that would happily see Lord Starscream unseated and killed. Caminus had already thrown its lot in with Lord Starscream, but marrying Windblade to him would make it irreversible.

Yet it would confer legitimacy onto Starscream’s rule and to how his rule was seen abroad. Eukaris and Navitas would sign documentation almost immediately to recognize his government as true and legitimate. Even Elita, whose constant war preparations made Caminus uneasy, would likely side with Starscream publicly, but privately...Elita still maintained her affection for Windblade, if the spies were to be believed, but how deep would that affection run? There were rumors that Elita’s government was silently providing funds to the Autobots--would that cease?

And what would happen to Windblade if the Autobots did prevail? In the best case scenario, she would be a hostage and likely promptly married off to one of the Autobot leaders in an effort to confer legitimacy onto whoever succeeded Starscream. In the worst case scenario, she would be killed.

The Mistress of Flame tapped her desk with greater urgency. Perhaps the wisest course of action would be simply to wait. The Autobots had lived in peace with their southern neighbors for the last ten, thirteen years. Perhaps they had grown accustomed to peace, however uneasy it was, and no longer wished to engage an old enemy for territory they did not have the numbers to hold in any case. Yet there were rumors the Autobots were preparing to mobilize again. Something had happened a few months ago, when the Flame of Solus had guttered, and that was when the rumors began.

The Mistress of Flame looked down at the beautifully illuminated star-chart and murmured a quiet prayer. “Please, Solus, light my way so that I might do the best thing by my daughter.”

The candle kept in the brass casing flickered and threw odd shadows against the floor, a sign that Solus had heard her prayer, even if it meant no answer was--as of yet--forthcoming.

\--

Windblade hummed the dawn hymn under her breath as she carefully stepped around the growing greenery. She spotted cabbages, lettuce, and carrots, but on the other end of the large indoor field were bean plants. So the soil needed nourishing, did it? She allowed her magic to stream from her hands and seep into the soil below, where the scarlet of her magic dove into the plant roots and outlined the plant from top to bottom. Pleased, she cut off the flow of magic and stepped lightly across the wooden boards to do the same thing on the other side.

The royal greenhouses were shaped like a cross, with the largest greenhouse--the ‘stem’--being the star of Camien food production for the palace. There were other fields, which got plenty of use during the growing and harvesting seasons, but it was in winter that the greenhouse kept the palace fed. Not only did it grow leafy greens, but it grew root vegetables and fruit in varying sections. The soil was kept moist--thus the wooden boarded walkways--but even the soil needed to be nourished every other season. Besides, the beans were useful in the kitchen for flour and curd. Caminus did not have the space for large wheat fields, but rice could be grown in tiered fields, allowing for a larger yield from a smaller area. There wasn’t a greenhouse built for rice--yet--but at least rice could have multiple crops in one growing season.

Some of the gardeners who worked the greenhouses had even found ways to grow plants vertically, creating more space for food production. It was all rather brilliant, and at Windblade’s request a few years ago, the gardeners and plant witches had begun a treatise that would hopefully be completed by the end of this winter season.

If it was, Windblade intended to bring a copy to Iacon and implement the most practical methods immediately. She personally believed that once a society no longer worried itself over where its food came from, then that society could progress in other ways once it had the time and resources. If she could stabilize Iacon’s food production, that would be a coup.

Windblade sent out her magic in a wave toward the bean plants. If they were pumped full of life magic, then anywhere they were planted they would spread that selfsame magic. She preferred, when she had the option, to work her magic subtly instead of merely slamming it down. Things like strengthening medicinal herbs or even the bean plants dispersed her magic in a much more sustainable way and in a way that did not cause or contribute to intolerance or addiction to her magic.

When she had no other option, like what was going on in Iacon, she had to use the blunt-force method, but she didn’t _like_ it.

“I would’ve thought the plants would’ve turned toward you or something.”

Windblade pivoted on the boards to give a mock glare to the languid Starscream sauntering toward her. “I have life magic, not plant magic,” she groused. “They don’t talk to me.”

He looked down at the red-veined cabbage plants. “Fascinating,” he said flatly. “That they _could_ talk.”

“They have their own...something, apparently.” She turned away from him and continued into the third section of the greenhouse, where fruit trees and berry vines were contentedly fruiting. He followed after.

“That’s a short skirt.”

She glanced down at her skirt, which ended at her shins. Her boots came up and over her knees, which could be considered erotic in the right circumstance--Elita had thought so--but in the context of gardening was highly _not_. “It’s easier to keep plants from mixing if they can’t attach creepers, pollen, or seeds to my clothes. When we get into the floral greenhouse, there will be waxed smocks to put on.”

“Why wouldn’t you want plants to mix?”

“It could make them more vulnerable to certain blights or pests. We’ve already had to establish several procedures just to keep the greenhouses free of pests, but if one person slips up, that could wipe out an entire greenhouse in days or weeks. So we have other safeguards.” She shrugged her shoulders at him, since he wasn’t able to see her face--the wooden boards didn’t allow more than one person’s width at a time. “In regards to the florals, some of our plant witches are experimenting with breeding to get certain colors or scents, and if they mixed accidentally, that’s a whole series of experiments and magic wasted. It’s easier to be careful.”

“A whole world of safeguards that I knew nothing about,” he remarked.

She grinned, grateful that he couldn’t see it. “Well, now you do, my lord. Here we are.” She pulled up the heavy canvas curtain that sectioned off the main greenhouse from the connecting ones, and then once they were both through, she released it. The lighting in the tiny closet was slight, but it was enough for her to hand Starscream a smock and to tie her own. There were gloves of all sizes, and she selected a pair her size.

Once Starscream had his, she hauled open the connecting canvas curtain and led him into the medicinal herbs greenhouse. The air smelled heavily of juniper and cedar, neither of which were her favorite scents, but Starscream was entirely taken with the vertical pots. “How were these discovered?”

“It was an experiment on the part of the head plant witch thirty years ago, my lord,” she said as he examined it from all angles. “It was part of my grandmother’s effort to make our food production more productive but also more efficient. Since it worked, we kept it.”

“Why was there a need to change your gardening procedures?”

“Seventy years ago, the capital city went from being something like a cross between a village and an outpost to an actual city. It corresponded with the discovery of gold and silver in the Northern mountains. All of a sudden, the country needed a power base instead of one that traveled. With a higher population in an area like this, food became harder to produce and while farmers were tasked with bringing food into the city, any major climate upheaval could cause starvation. So my grandmother, upon becoming the Mistress of Flame, ordered for a complete reorganization in food and farming to ensure the city could be self-sufficient.”

“Which also makes it easier to withstand a siege,” Starscream said as he walked around the various herbs. “Doesn’t Carcer have a terrible habit of rattling their sabers at you?”

“There were multiple benefits to restructuring, my lord.”

“I’m sure there were,” he murmured. “Why grow these herbs here?”

“Some aren’t native to Caminus and require a warmer environment,” she said idly as she went to see which plants he was looking at. “Some, like aloe, are needed all year round in case of emergencies. The plants that are native to here typically have their own outdoor fields, since the natural growing cycle is necessary for any plant that evolved to survive here. Winter is very long, my lord--it starts in late October and typically doesn’t thaw out until late April or early May. People don’t stop getting sick or injured merely because the temperatures outside are below freezing.”

“In some cases, sickness is more likely because the temperatures are below freezing.”

“Just so.” She wandered over to the table in the corner of the greenhouse, where a variety of plants were being tended to. She had asked the head gardener to put aside--ah, yes.

Starscream followed her. “What’s that?”

“Red raspberry. If you steep the leaf in water and drink the tea, it’s useful for fertility.” She fed the plant magic. “I give this plant to Hot Shot and Thunderblast every year.”

“Hm.” Starscream looked over her shoulder, and her stomach clenched at the feel of his presence so close to her. The close contact was slowly turning her senses on fire, and she stepped away from him to find a ribbon. “Why?”

“Because as--,” _terrible_ , “annoying as they are, they need to have a child. They’ve been struggling for it since they married.” She turned to him with a pink (pink for children and pregnancy) ribbon strung between her fingers. “It’s...my contribution to the effort.”

He was giving her that look again, the one that meant he couldn’t understand her. She waited on the span of a breath to see if he would say what was running through his mind, but then he turned away from her. She couldn’t stand the silence, so she cleared her throat. “Would you like to see our poison garden?”

 _That_ got his attention. “What?!”

She gave him a shy smile. “We have a garden of poisonous plants. Would you like to see?”

“ _Yes._ ”

She beamed and led him through the second greenhouse to the next interim room. “These are more dangerous than anything else we have,” she warned as she found slip-covers for their shoes. He pulled his on as she grabbed the rough linen masks. “Don’t touch it with your skin. Here.”

“Turn around.”

“What?”

“I’ll tie your mask on for you if you return the favor,” he said over-patiently.

Her stomach clenched again. “O-of course.”

Technically speaking, the masks were designed so that a person could tie both ties on themselves, but as she turned around and felt his presence--he always felt _cold_ to her, and she wondered if it was his magic--she couldn’t regret allowing him something so mild yet so intimate. His glove-covered fingers slipped past her heavy braided hair and brushed the shell of her ear. She swallowed a gasp--her ears had always been sensitive--and then he was all business.

She mimicked his casual attitude as she tied on his mask. He frightened her, a bit. She had been attracted to people before, and even people _like him_ (not that she had any intention of ever making the comparison of Starscream and Elita out loud to anyone ever), so that part wasn’t too much of a surprise. They had been through too much in too short a time, with all of the different emotions, for her not to feel some buzz of attraction for him.

She hoped it was just attraction, in any case.

The light was dim and Windblade stepped carefully into the room. Starscream followed after her, and she moved aside a lentacular plant to show him the full greenhouse. He stepped past her, but she could see how his jaw dropped through his mask. The poison greenhouse was filled entirely with gorgeous flowers of eye-smarting shades of red, yellow, and blue.

“Why?” he breathed. “Why keep it?”

“Some of these,” she reached out to brush a plant, “like this foxglove, have medicinal uses. Others...some of our healers do research to see if these poisons can have medicinal uses.”

“And the remaining?”

She shrugged. “Objects of studies and fascination, largely.”

She stayed by the foxglove while Starscream stalked through the greenhouse. She heard him mutter which plants were there, and she was amused to see how he kept his hands to himself. He kept his hands tight on the sides of his smock to keep the folds of the treated linen from touching the plants.

The lentacular plant was lengthening in response to her magic, but she flicked her fingers at it. It shouldn't be as active as it could be. Starscream was used to plants that didn’t move and it wasn’t the time to disavow him of the notion.

“Where do you stand on poison?” he asked abruptly, in between the belladonna plants and Eastern lilac.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you try not to kill. So why allow a greenhouse that could cause mass murder?”

“I believe that poisons, in the right dosages, could have medical uses.”

“But,” he prompted.

“Poisons allow for targeted removal,” she admitted after a moment. “No collateral damage. Poison has a reputation,” she twisted her lips in disdain, “but at least it doesn’t take anyone with it.”

“Hm.” He stalked back to her side. “I’m bored.”

“So you’re tired of greenhouses?” she was grateful for the mask to hide her impish smile. “Would you like to see the mews? I could show you some of the falcons I’ve raised.”

“ _You’ve_ raised?”

She turned so that her skirt flicked around her legs as she went to the interim space. Starscream’s curiosity was a sure bet, and sure enough, he followed after her. She stripped off her gloves and mask but left her smock on. The hawks had a tendency to get excited around her, and her dress paid the price. Her dress may have been made of serviceable wool, but she disliked streaks of shit on her clothing.

She hid her amusement at how quickly he fell into step with her. “Sewing, embroidery, herbalism, gardening, games, and now falconry?!”

“Why does it surprise you that I possess many layers?” she inquired as she looked at him. “Sewing and embroidery are necessary skills for someone of my station. Herbalism and gardening--and healing, you’ve forgotten that--were methods of practicing my magic and learning control over it. I’ve always had a good hand with animals and I worked with them when I got bored.” She frowned slightly. “Who do you think runs the household when the nominal leaders are gone? _We_ do.”

“Consider me educated.”

The mews were over the hill and tucked into the area that shielded the kennels and the cattery. It was still part of the palace complex, but it was off the beaten path. A cold breeze curled around the palace and Windblade lifted her face into it. She had missed the cold dampness of Caminus as winter settled in.

She glanced at Starscream. He was huddled into his coat and his skin redddened with cold. She hesitated for a moment, before she took a risk. “Give me your hand.”

“What?”

“Give me your hand,” she repeated. “You’re miserable.”

“How will giving you my hand do anything?” he complained.

“Will you just trust me for a blessed moment?” She held out her hands, and with a flash of his own hesitation, he laid his hand on hers. She rubbed his palm between her two hands, and noted that his skin was starting to chap. She would make sure he got some balm to help him.

From her hands, she poured warmth into his veins. He stiffened but then relaxed, and his coat settled on him more comfortably. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Vos was largely tropical.”

“I’m sorry that this weather is not to your liking.” She continued to rub his hand and push warmth into him, even though his body was warm enough. It gave her an excuse to touch him. “This is one of the first things I learned once I learned how to control my fire, to share warmth.”

“Even as a young one, you were giving yourself to others.” He shook his head. “You put others at ease at your own expense.”

She dismissed that as pure nonsense. “I’ll make sure that your room is kept warm with braziers and bedpans.”

“Why do you take care of people?” he asked with frustration. Despite that frustration, he wouldn’t let her let go of him either. “It doesn’t get you anything.”

“Pardon me, my lord,” she was surprised by her own irritation. His constant commentary on how she chose to behave was spoiling her enjoyment of being outdoors with green and living things. “I am _kind_. I _choose_ to be kind. It’s not always easy, I can assure you, but the knowledge that someone is suffering when I could do something to stop it is enough to make me--ugh!” She dropped his hand and stomped down the hill. She shoved her hands into her pockets and breathed out steam.

She stared out into the small game park and tried to bring herself under control. The attraction and omnipresent low-lying irritation had coalesced into a tight ball of emotion under her heart.If Starscream tried to talk to her, she wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t breathe out flame.

She was both disappointed and relieved to see him walking back toward the palace. She needed some space.

\--

Windblade’s upset hadn’t cleared by the time she went to her mother’s chambers for dinner. It irked her--Hot Shot would tell she was upset and needle her further until she completely broke down--but her emotions had a tendency to gang up on her when she had been deeply rattled. There was no chance she would go back to her usual serenity without a night’s sleep. She would just have bite her tongue and deal with the stomach cramps of her upset.

When the footman opened the door for her, she saw someone she hadn’t expected to see for at least another few days. “Lightbright!”

Her sister broke away from a conversation with their mother and Starscream. Windblade--wanted many things, to throw her arms around her younger sister and weep, to sit next to her and tell her everything that had happened, or even just to compliment the quality of the silk of her blue Initiate robe. All she found she had the strength for was to clutch Lightbright’s hands and to blink rapidly to hold back the tears. “Where’s Hot Shot?” she managed after a moment.

Lightbright rolled her eyes. “It’s that time of the month for Thunderblast. They chose to take dinner in their rooms.”

Windblade had to scramble that in her head. “Er--?”

“Oh, right, you haven’t been here. Mother politely suggested that perhaps they use a healer to track when Thunderblast has an easier time of getting pregnant. After shouting at her for a few hours, Hot Shot agreed it was a good idea and now it’s _that’s time of the month._ ” Lightbright shook her head. “So it’ll be just us tonight.”

With difficulty, Windblade let go of Lightbright’s hands. “I apologize for my tardiness.”

“I was expecting you to arrive with Lord Starscream, actually.” Lightbright tilted her head, and her short, curled hair flopped against her forehead. Windblade watched it with jealousy. All novices and Initiates at the Temple cut their hair until they were made full Dedicates, and then most of them chose to keep it short. Windblade had had to keep her hair long because she was a _proper_ lady. “Did something happen between the two of you?”

“I just felt like taking the long way around,” Windblade demurred. She did not want to discuss Lord Starscream at the moment.

Lightbright’s eyes sharpened, but she let it lie. She led Windblade over to the table, and Windblade instinctively followed her sister, but Lightbright shook her head and placed her in her usual place--on the right side of Starscream. She didn’t want to be there, and she opened her mouth to tell Lightbright that, but then Mother and Starscream were there and she didn’t have the chance.

At least Starscream was ignoring her too. He was deep in discussion with Mother about something--it sounded like taxes--and as Lightbright poured them all tea, Windblade leaned across the table to murmur, “So how is your work in the Temple? I thought you were too busy planning the pageants.”

“I decided to take a night off. The halls are full of the sound of people coughing--what with the advent of the cold, we’ve had an outbreak of colds, which naturally leads to lung sickness.” Lightbright rolled her eyes companionably. “Nothing too serious, thank Solus, but it’s thrown off pageant practice.”

“Would you like me to assist tomorrow? It’s been a bit since I performed any official nursing duties, but I would be happy to pull on my uniform on.”

“No, the cases aren’t that awful. There are enough that the remaining healers are completely tied up, though.” Lightbright rolled her eyes fondly. “I took my chance to escape.”

“Do your healers often have to deal with lung sickness?” Starscream asked abruptly, startling them both. “We dealt with it often in the war--it killed as many as actual combat did.”

“It’s a seasonal illness for us,” Lightbright said, recovering first. Windblade’s eyes flicked to Mother, who had laced her fingers together and was watching them with an expression Windblade didn’t understand. “A winter illness, largely. Other illnesses aren’t so seasonal, like cold or flu or lung fever. Since Windblade talked the Council into installing water filtration systems, we haven’t had to deal with rice water fever in any major way.” Lightbright tapped the table. “Hm. The red pox and the Strangler make appearances, but there’s no good time to judge when they might or might not be present.”

“We had all of those. We had the rot too.”

That piqued Windblade’s interest. They had seen the rot too, but only after fires and fishing accidents. “How did you treat it? We try to heal it with natural means before healers.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” Starscream told her. “Our healers were tied up or killed.”

A hush fell over the table at his revelation. Windblade looked down at her bowl of soup, a thin fish broth with razor-thin slices of tuna and various vegetables. It was Lightbright who found a way to salvage the conversation. “All of our novices and students are required to go through first-aid training,” she remarked. “Basic nursing and the like. Whenever there’s an emergency, which sadly happens all too often, we can better practice triage by ensuring there are enough hands to perform the more mundane healing tasks like sutures and wound cleaning so that our healers can focus on the more serious cases. Perhaps you should consider a similar program.”

“Is that how you learned your nursing skills?” Starscream asked Windblade, who had just taken a sip of the piping hot broth.

She inhaled and swallowed down the wrong way in her haste to answer, and she hid her lower face in her sleeve as she coughed. When she could speak without croaking, she answered, “Yes, it was. Then it was discovered that even if I did not possess healing abilities, per se, I had enough of an aptitude to train me with potions, tinctures, and other infusions.”

“I raised my children to be useful,” Mother said mildly. “As well as competent. Out of all of my children, Windblade was the most wild.” She smiled faintly as Starscream’s eyebrows rose. “If she wasn’t kept busy, she would wreak havoc on whoever she felt had wronged her. What did you do to the cook again…?”

“Mother, I was _seven_ ,” Windblade protested.

“Oh, right. Windblade had wanted a sweet for being a good girl and helping feed the chickens, but the cook was busy and spoke sharply to her. In response, all of the vegetables suddenly went rotten with mold. The cook was terrified, but I knew immediately who had done it.”

“The only reason why the mold stuck to them is because they had been improperly cleaned in the first place,” Windblade groused, an old complaint between the two of them. “It never would have worked otherwise, and once there was mold on them, you couldn’t eat them.”

“In any case, that was when I knew Windblade needed a more thorough education than I had been initially planning. I couldn’t send her away to the Temple for formal education until she was twelve, but I assigned her to the palace gardens and other things.” Mother laid down her spoon and they all followed suit. “She hides it well, my lord, but she does possess a rather mischievous streak.”

“Mother,” Windblade begged. “Leave me to some secrets, _please_.”

“Have you heard her sing yet?” Lightbright teased, her cobalt eyes flickering with mirth.

“Yes, actually.” Starscream adjusted himself in his chair as the servants laid grilled chicken in a ginger sauce over rice in front of them. “She was performing an enchantment.”

Mother frowned at Windblade. Hymns of invocation were not supposed to be performed in front of outsiders, but Windblade had had little choice. She gazed back at her mother with a touch of defiance. Either she was a princess or she was not. Mother released the tiniest of sighs and dropped it.

Lightbright tapped her chin. “What more secrets could I share…?” she mused.

“None, please,” Windblade said tartly as she picked up her chopsticks after Mother did. “Unless you’d like to talk about your--.”

“No, that’s perfectly acceptable,” Lightbright squeaked.

Windblade tucked her smile away. She was still a big sister and knew the secrets Lightbright wanted to keep quiet. “So what is the subject of this year’s main pageant?”

“I thought we would return to the founding of Caminus,” Lightbright said as she poked at her chicken. “Since we’ll be celebrating the anniversary of our founding later this year. You know, just to get us into the right mood.”

“Is it a yearlong celebration?” Starscream inquired.

Lightbright laughed. “No, more like a week. It falls squarely in harvesting season, and winters are so close to the bone already we dare not take longer than a week to celebrate. But it will keep our minds on Solus during this dark time of the year, and that’s what matters.” She beamed at him.

“...right.”

Windblade helped herself to some of the vegetables and added them to her still-steaming soup. Lightbright continued to chatter about the preparations for the pageant, while Starscream gave her increasingly monosyllabic answers. Windblade glanced at Mother, who winked at her. Windblade flashed an amused grin at her in response, and Mother’s eyes fell to her soup.

Lightbright continued to dominate the dinnertime conversation, but Windblade wasn’t irritated with it, the way she would have if it had been Thunderblast. Part of it was how much she had missed her sister, but the other part of it was that Lightbright wasn’t talking about herself specifically, it was about her work. Windblade could always appreciate a conversation about work.

By the time dessert was served, a delicate whipped confection of rice flour, fruit filling, and powdered sugar, Starscream had a slightly glazed look. It was the ‘Lightbright effect,’ when Lightbright deliberately talked the ear off of whomever she was speaking to. It was a test, to see how long it took her conversational partners to stop engaging. Windblade wasn’t familiar with the current scorecard.

After dinner, Windblade took a step toward the gameboard with a glance at Lightbright, but Lightbright glanced at her and shook her head. Windblade’s eyebrows knotted, a pang of hurt making her feel cold. “My dear daughter,” Mother said with a gentle squeeze to her upper arm. “Why don’t you retire? I understand that Lady Thunderblast had engaged an interview for a potential tailor and valet for you tomorrow morning.”

“But I wanted to talk to Lightbright,” Windblade protested in a whisper.

“You’ll have tomorrow, my love.” Mother promised. “Go now.”

Windblade stole another look at how Lightbright was setting up on the small sofa in front of the fire. Clearly Mother and Lightbright wanted to talk to Starscream about something without her hearing it. She wondered why.

\--

As Windblade cleared the room, Starscream watched the Mistress of Flame from the corners of his eyes. She was leaning on the back of the sofa, where Princess Lightbright was seated, and the two of them were murmuring about something. Starscream turned his back on them and warmed his hands in front of the fire. It wasn’t the same as Windblade warming his blood, and wasn’t _that_ an interesting feeling. He had vaguely heard a minor _crack!_ noise as she did so, and it had set him on edge. She hadn’t heard it, which had only made him sharper. He regretted that, but he wasn’t sure how to bridge that gap. ‘I’m so sorry, my lady princess, there was a strange cracking noise in my ears and since I didn’t know where it came from, I was sharper than I meant to be. Oops.’

 _Right_.

“Lord Starscream,” Princess Lightbright said with a warm smile. “Why don’t you sit? We have some things to discuss.”

And _that_ was interesting as well. Why wasn’t it Hot Shot in the room with him and the Mistress of Flame? Why was it the youngest daughter? She wasn’t the heir. It sounded like she had a future in the Temple, not in the palace. “If you insist, Your Highness,” he said graciously as he sank into one of the padded chairs turned toward the fire. Caminus was damp and _cold_.

Princess Lightbright perched on the end of the sofa. Her rich blue robes glimmered in the firelight, but her hair was only loosely pinned back, nothing like what Windblade or Thunderblast wore. She was pretty enough, he supposed, with outlines of the same white tattoos that Windblade had. Why only outlines? Had she not finished her training yet?

Ripples of electric blue magic streamed from her hands to the fire, which roared and got hotter. He raised an eyebrow at the color of her magic. So red was _not_ the color of fire magic. Intriguing. “Mother informs me that you’ve made your betrothal with my sister a condition of the treaty. Why?”

“Why, as in why is it a condition, or why as in why do I want a betrothal with your sister?”

Princess Lightbright giggled. “Both, actually.”

“Marriages are the best way to keep a treaty together,” he said. “Treaties can be disregarded at will, but if marriage is the glue, then it is more difficult.” He ducked his head in a show of shyness. “And it will ensure that Caminus always has a diplomat in my court.”

“Why my sister?” Princess Lightbright said, with a note of steel in her voice. “You could have anyone. You are Lord of Cybertron.”

“I couldn’t, actually.” Starscream lifted his chin, familiar irritation starting to buzz under his skin. “Marriage between two bloody political factions rarely works out, and I like my head where it is. Additionally, most of the survivors who managed not to choose either faction would not want to appear as though they are siding with one or the other except in where it matters for their survival. I am not sentimental, but I had no desire to marry someone who is constantly looking for an exit.”

The Mistress of Flame laid a hand on Princess Lightbright’s shoulder as the princess breathed in quickly to argue with him. “What can you offer my daughter?” the Mistress of Flame inquired.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Autobots are rising again, there is a determined lack of rain, you are forestalling a famine through a combination of sheer luck and willpower, and the population of a once-great empire has been reduced to less than a million sparks. You are in power now, Lord Starscream, but the wheel turns. Who is to say that the next time your faction and the Autobots clash, that it will not be you who is torn asunder?” The Mistress of Flame tilted her head, the firelight deepening her golden eyes until they appeared red.

Starscream straightened, his personal and political pride pricked. “The Autobots are leaderless, Mistress. Out of the mass of confusion and disillusion has come two faction leaders, but neither can win over the other. The Autobots may be rising again, but it is the last gasp of a dying political ideology.This is not to say that they aren’t dangerous or could be, but it is hard to lead an effective movement without any clear leadership. I learned that from my predecessor.” The temperature in the room dropped with his temper, despite the blazing fire behind him. “As for famine and rebuilding, that is a good reason of why I want to marry your daughter. She and I are working together to solve the rain problem--that is part of the reason why I’m here. I won’t lie, the next ten to fifteen years are going to be difficult and full of work, but I believe she would enjoy that.” He gave them a razor’s smile. “She does seem to prefer to work.”

The Mistress of Flame pursed her lips. “You do know her.”

“That can only help,” Starscream replied. With an effort, he removed the cold blanketing the room, and he sighed as the heat from the fire washed over him. The Mistress of Flame didn’t appear to notice, but Princess Lightbright’s eyes widened at the sudden heat. “There are risks to any political marriage,” he said. “But in this case, I believe that the potential benefits outweigh them. A warmer relationship between our two states is no bad thing.”

“It gives Windblade a defined role as well,” Lightbright murmured. “Mother?”

“I would like more time to negotiate the marriage arrangement in the treaty before I confirm or deny it,” the Mistress of Flame announced, no longer a concerned mother but rather the imperious near-Empress of Caminus she was. “Will you be amenable to making changes, my lord?” Her manner dared him to disagree.

He bowed from his seat. “Nothing on a treaty is final until we sign it, Mistress.”

She gave him a smile as thin as his own. “I appreciate your...flexibility.”

Princess Lightbright stood and he copied her as he realized he had been dismissed. He wondered if the Mistress of Flame’s imperial manners were something she had, inherently, or she had learned them from somewhere. It suited her, but he preferred a brasher approach to his people. It might not be a bad idea to adopt some of her subtleties, however.

He bowed again, and retreated to his quarters for some cold sleep. The guest wing was not part of the central building, and did not have access to the central heat. Still, his assigned servant had ensured a warm bedpan under the sheets, and he slipped in between them with a sigh of relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things acted as inspiration for this chapter: 1) The Mistress of Flame's star-charts are a shout-out to _The Master of Verona_ , where a group of characters deal with a similar star chart but are not given the benefit of their subject being nearly 30. 2) The gardens of Caminus are inspired by, of all things, the _Land_ boat ride at DisneyWorld's Epcot. It's a tour that takes you through some of Disney's greenhouses, and they engage in some very interesting agricultural techniques, including vertical growing. It's one of my favorite rides there, for all of its slowness. 
> 
> The Duchess of Northumberland is famous for having a poison garden on the grounds of Northumberland (also where the outside scenes for _Harry Potter_ was shot). My mother had the chance to go there a few years ago, but unfortunately she did not take the poison garden tour.
> 
> Challenge for this chapter: the person who can identify the real world equivalents to the following diseases will get a sneak peek of what's to come!
> 
> Lung sickness  
> Lung fever  
> Rice water fever  
> Red pox  
> Strangler (hint: this starred as an antagonist in a children's movie)  
> Rot
> 
> Comments are marvelous!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments always make my day, and I'm grateful for each and every one. 
> 
> My contest is still ongoing! If you can identify the real-world counterparts of the following diseases, I'll give you a sneak peek at something special to come. These diseases are:
> 
> Lung sickness (this is a complication of a respiratory infection)  
> Lung fever (this disease was very fashionable in the 19th century; also one of the oldest diseases in human history)  
> Rice water fever (the name is a clue)  
> Red pox (this disease changed the course of history several times)  
> Strangler (hint: this starred as an antagonist in a children's movie)  
> Rot (particularly known in the American Civil War)
> 
> I can't wait to see your submissions!
> 
> This chapter contains implied references to eating disorders.

**CHAPTER TEN: UNEXPECTED GIFTS**

When Windblade awoke the following morning, it was not to the early morning dawn or the quiet activities of her maid lighting the fires and warming the water Windblade used for her morning ablutions. Instead, it was to the chittering of Thunderblast and the coterie of ladies and maids she trailed after her as befitted her consequence as the Consort to the future ruler.

Windblade pulled the covers over her head as she fought off the instinct to set all of the noisy ladies’ underclothes on fire. See how much they would chatter then, she thought uncharitably as she yawned under the heavy comforter. She was warm and sleepy and wanted to stay that way.

“Windblade!” Her door slid open and slammed into the sliding frame. “Get up, you lugabed! We have work to do!”

Like Thunderblast would know anything about _work_. Windblade breathed in deeply and counted to one hundred in her mind as Thunderblast bustled around her chamber, pulling robes from her clothespress and finding her undergown in one of the drawers.

“Wind _blade_!” Thunderblast pulled at the comforter, the last straw to Windblade’s thin temper. She sat bolt upright in bed, the air beginning to swirl in the room with the heat from her irritation and resentment.

“Get _out_.” Windblade’s voice echoed through the wooden walls as her hair exploded from its braid--the only way she could keep her hair from strangling her as she slept--and surrounding her with a wild halo. “I did not invite you into my chambers and I _certainly_ did not invite you as a wake-up call. How dare you?! What gives you the right to barge in without my consent?”

Thunderblast, uncharacteristically, quavered slightly before her chin firmed. “I have the consent of the Mistress of Flame. I mean to introduce you to a potential valet and tailor, and that has to be done this morning so that your robes for the New Year’s celebration can be finished in time.”

Windblade threw back the covers and placed her feet on the wooden floor, for once allowing herself to tower over the much-shorter Thunderblast. “Have you not considered setting an appointment?” she asked through gritted teeth.

Thunderblast bridled. “Because you have a social secretary who manages such things?” she asked sweetly. She shoved the bundle of clothes at Windblade. “Get dressed. Breakfast is laid out in your outer room, but it’s not too much.” She giggled. “We wouldn’t want you to eat too much right before you’re due to be fitted, after all!”

The fire in the fireplace crackled, and for one long moment, Windblade gave serious thought to wrapping her sister-in-law in a column of flame until nothing was left but ash. Then the moment passed and she was ashamed of herself--the only reason why she could do what she did with flame was because of her control. Murdering Thunderblast for a breach of proprietry would be immature and uncontrolled to the extreme.

Her shame caused her to nod mutely at Thunderblast, though not without a glower--she still had her pride--and Thunderblast thankfully left the room so that Windblade could pull on her robes without an audience. She combed out her hair and did her best to ignore the prickles of static electricity as she braided it and pinned it at the nape of her neck. Then, with yet another deep breath, she fortified herself and slid open the door to the outer room.

Thunderblast’s entourage was smaller than it had sounded, with only three ladies as her attendants and four more maids. From the door linking Windblade’s chambers to the outer hall, Chromia looked bewildered and bemused as the women that had invaded the quiet sanctity of Windblade’s chambers made the walls vibrate with the strength of their chatter.

Thunderblast lurched to her feet. “Breakfast is all laid out, sister. Don’t worry about your hair, we’ll mend it after you eat.” She winked at Windblade. “Take care not to eat too much, now! I dare say you can spare it.”

The other ladies seated around the table giggled and Windblade counted to two hundred. Thunderblast had been seduced by a faction in the court that proclaimed that ladies were at their prettiest when their limbs were long and bony. Windblade, who in her diplomatic duties had worked with victims of famine and other causes of malnutrition, found the whole premise insulting and ridiculous, but Thunderblast cared more about the latest fashions instead of the ensuing reality of the values her favorites espoused.

Windblade seated herself and was given a portion of sweet and spicy congee by Thunderblast herself, but it was so that Thunderblast could monitor Windblade’s portion instead of any true reverence. Windblade valued her strong, muscular frame instead of the twigs Thunderblast preferred, and so to spite her sister-in-law, she spooned some heavy molasses onto her congee and licked the spoon clean in Thunderblast’s direction.

Thunderblast rolled her eyes.

Breakfast passed in that petty fashion, and then Windblade found herself in front of a vanity mirror while one of Thunderblast’s attendants worked a combination of light oil and water through her hair so that it could be styled. She wasn’t entirely sure how it happened, but she was tired, too tired to fight Thunderblast on something so small.

From her position at Windblade’s left, Thunderblast clucked as she picked up a lock of Windblade’s hair. “So dry and straw like,” Thunderblast criticized. “Do you take no pride in your appearance, Windblade? You are a Princess of Caminus. Work is no excuse for you not to take care of yourself.” She flagged down another aide. “Make an appointment with the hairdresser for tomorrow morning. I don’t care who they have to bump out of the way.”

The attendant bowed and scurried away.

“Has it occurred to you,” Windblade said pointedly, “that I might have _things_ to do instead of being whisked from a tailor’s salon to the hairdresser and other frivolous things?”

Thunderblast flapped it away. “We have three weeks until the New Year. You need to look like the Princess you are. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to to expand your wardrobe, not with your leaving to Cybertron.”

“What, I can’t find a Cybertronian tailor?” Windblade grumped.

Thunderblast’s shoulders stiffened. “You are Camien. Only a Camien should have the privilege of dressing you.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Windblade yawned. “Where is this master of thread and cloth, anyway?”

“Master Tracks,” Thunderblast said. “He is technically a refugee from the Cybertronian civil war, but he adopted to Camien fashions rather quickly and likes to experiment with them. I’m partial to more traditional stylings, of course, but since your wardrobe is a visitation to every country you’ve ever been to, I thought his eclectic style might, hm, _appeal_ to you.”

Translation: Thunderblast couldn’t stand his work, but he was too gifted a designer and tailor to be cut loose from the court entirely. Give him to Windblade, and she might like him enough to remove him from the Camien court. Windblade rolled her eyes at such blatant manipulations. She didn’t care for the maneuverings of the fashionable in the court, but even she admitted that she was a drab little sparrow compared to the peacocks and birds of paradise that Thunderblast surrounded herself with. That was even apparent today--Windblade’s robe was a dark burgundy, embroidered with black and white vines done subtly, to move the eye along the lines of her robe. Thunderblast’s robe was a pure amethyst, with gold embroidery winking from every tiger in the pattern.

For once, it might be nice to outshine her sister-in-law. Windblade even knew how to do it. As the first daughter of the Mistress of Flame, she inherited by right the three traditional robes her great-grandmother had had made almost a century ago, all of them deeply colored with embroideries showing the legacy of Caminus--the firebird, the stars, and the smithy. Thunderblast wanted them, badly, but not even Hot Shot would try to take them from Windblade.

Unfortunately, her great-grandmother had been shorter than Thunderblast, so the robe ended about Windblade’s knees. The sleeves were fine, but did not drape and fall the way traditional sleeves were supposed to. Windblade lacked the opportunity to wear the robes, but if this ‘Master Tracks’ style was as Thunderblast had said, perhaps they could find a way.

“I will meet with him,” Windblade sighed in her most bored manner. “If only because you have gone to so much trouble.”

“Excellent,” Thunderblast chirped as she clapped her hands, one-two. “Now. Your hair.”

The next two hours saw Windblade’s hair combed, twisted, pinned, and coiled until it was arranged to Thunderblast’s satisfaction. For her part, Windblade remembered why she preferred her braided arrangements--she did not have to feel that she carried her own halo with her. It was heavy, and Windblade ground her teeth as she held her head up while Thunderblast put in hair ornaments.

As ridiculous as she felt all of this was, her hairstyle was what Thunderblast called “daily styling.” It meant her hair lacked the jeweled pin, pearls, and feathers Thunderblast employed for formal occasions. Windblade stifled her impatience at Thunderblast’s promises of dressing her up in the ‘traditional’ way for New Year’s and then for the Feast of Firelight. She did not want to spend hours just to prepare her hair.

When the tailor arrived, Windblade was at first put off by him. He wore blue and red silk nearly as rich as Thunderblast’s. His dark, shoulder-length hair was oiled into ringlets, and his fingertips were stained red with henna. He drifted about in a cloud of some spicy scent that made her think of cinnamon or cardamom, and when he laid those red fingertips on her shoulder, she nearly gave in to the swirling mass of irritation and impatience that had steadily worsened through the day.

“My lady princess,” Master Tracks simpered. “It is an honor.”

“I appreciate your time, master tailor.”

He flapped a hand. “It is nothing.” He looked from Windblade to Thunderblast, and the tension was evident. He cleared his throat. “My lady,” he said to Thunderblast, “sartorial choices are so...personal, as are measurements. Could the Princess Windblade and I have some time to ourselves? I am sure the Princess’ bodyguard is adequate chaperonage.”

Thunderblast’s lips thinned--no doubt she had been hoping to influence the designs for Windblade’s wardrobe, but she vanished with a particularly angry swirl of her robes. Once she was gone, the cocky tilt to Master Tracks’ shoulders vanished as he walked around Windblade. “Could you stand for me, please?”

Windblade obeyed, and he made an approving noise. “I love dressing tall people,” he confided as she stretched out her arms for his measurements. “It allows for me to showcase more designs hidden in fabric folds because of the way you people walk and carry yourselves.”

Windblade stifled a snort. Was _that_ why Thunderblast didn’t like him? She was too short for him?

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he said as he started measuring her waist, torso, and hips. She stood still and allowed it, and he hummed to himself all the while. “You’re curvy, Your Highness.”

“I’ve worked very hard on it,” Windblade said dryly. She had more muscles than Thunderblast’s cohorts thought were acceptable, but hers were from hard work. She didn’t regret them. “Will that be a problem for you?”

“What is your preferred silhouette?” Master Tracks said as he notated her measurements on a small notebook. “I would rather design clothes that flatter you rather than disappear you.” He looked up from his notes. “You have the right profile for tight bodices and full skirts. If your sister-in-law tried them,” he made a disparaging noise, “she would look like she was being eaten from the ground up. She looks better in drop-waisted robes. I tell her, the large belt cinched just under her shoulders merely makes her look shorter.” He threw his hands up in the air. “But you, Your Highness, can wear long, flowing skirts or even sheath robes. It will flatter your frame. Personally, I would recommend higher waistlines for you, since it will elongate your legs and make you look more elegant than long bodices and short skirts.”

Windblade had to stop and think. Most of her work dresses--when she actually wore work dresses and not hakama with cinched over-robes--tended to have a waistline at her natural waist, not her hips. The skirts flowed instead of being too tight or too big, because she valued movement above all. For her formal clothes, she preferred to adjust traditional robes with underskirts so that she could move instead of being confined to tiny steps.

“Would you like to see my current wardrobe?” she suggested. “It may give you some ideas.”

Master Tracks’ blue eyes lit up, and she needed no further answer. She led him into her bed chamber with Chromia following and to the small room that contained her clothing. She preferred a clothespress, but some of her robes needed more space to be stored in, since they were stored on figurines to help them keep their shape.

Master Tracks had no desire to indulge in casual conversation as he prowled around her clothing. She had been afraid that the henna on his fingertips was fresh enough to leave red streaks across the fabric, but thankfully it was not. Master Tracks made notes of fabric quality, clothing structure, and preferred embellishments, and after nearly an hour of his quiet muttering, he turned back to her. “This has given me several ideas, Your Highness. If you would permit me, I would like to draw some sketches of some ideas and perhaps we could go over them tomorrow or the day after?”

Windblade nodded. “That is acceptable, Master Tracks.”

His teeth glinted in a smile. “By your leave, Your Highness.’

She dismissed him, and as she did so, she realized Thunderblast was totally and completely gone. She could do what she wanted without her hypercritical sister-in-law watching her, and at that moment, Windblade wanted nothing more than to nap.

It was the best decision she had made for a long time.

\--

Starscream whistled to himself as he ambled down the corridor of the Temple. He had been invited to come meet with the Mother Superior, but she was currently in a meeting and he had been turned loose to explore. The Temple itself was more of a complex than a single building, with the main hall and associated floors being the worship space and study rooms. There was a magnificent library, full of books that he already planned to ask for copies of, but the wings of the complex were what he expected to maintain the running of such a large organization--dormitories and an excellent hospital, something he hadn’t expected for a religious institution, and other things like weaving rooms, the greenhouses, and the kitchens (practically a building in and of themselves).

The Palace of Flame, in comparison, was small. He supposed it made sense. Caminus was a small country with a small Noble Society; holding court would not require what Iacon had once required. The faith of the Way of Flame tied all of Caminus together; naturally the First Temple of Flame would be magnificent.

He went down two flights of stairs and turned a corner into wet heat. The crystal lighting flickered in the haze, and after he inhaled deeply, once, twice, he realized that this particular corridor likely led to the bathhouses used by Temple people. Whoops, that wasn’t where he meant to be.

He took the next left, where the air was less damp, and he followed it in the hopes that it would lead back to the main hall. The lighting was brighter, more like the natural winter sunlight of Caminus, and he quickened his step. He rounded another corner and nearly walked into one of the priestesses exiting the bathhouse.

“Forgive me,” he said as he bowed. The priestess wore the sky blue robe of what he had been told was the novice, but the thin linen clung to the wet lines of their body, with their dark hair treated in silk rolls.

Silk rolls…?

He straightened from his bow and looked directly into the mortified gaze of Windblade. Her cheeks were a dull red, and her hands were flexing in her robe. The robe was essentially a tube, longer than necessary despite Windblade’s height. “Forgive _me_ , my lord. I was so anxious to escape the bathhouse without getting Thunderblast’s attention that I didn’t check the door in the way I normally would.”

A lock of her hair was stuck to her cheek, and he reached out and brushed it away. Windblade stilled, her cheeks burning more brightly. “I rarely see you in such a state of undress,” he remarked after he wiped the lone water droplet off on his trousers.

Windblade looked down, her rolled hair falling forward in tendrils. “I know that, my lord.” Her voice was tight with embarrassed misery, and he saw that for her, this situation was deeply upsetting.He hadn’t meant to cause that--he preferred intentional upset. Carefully, so that she wouldn’t start, he lifted her chin with a fingertip.

“It’s all right, my lady princess,” he said quietly. “Neither of us planned this. No honor was lost.” Her eyes still wouldn’t meet his, so he reached out and tweaked a silken roll. “What’s this?”

“Thunderblast brought me in to see the royal hairdresser yesterday,” she said with a contained eye roll. “He was deeply unhappy with the state of my hair. I must live with this ridiculous style for another day while it treats my hair for dryness and fragility before he could begin to indulge in his _art_.”

“So your sister-in-law is determined that you will look like a princess instead of a priestess?” he inquired.

Windblade’s face was still pink, but she pressed her lips together to hold in a malicious giggle. “I think I am more than she bargained for.’

“Just so,” he agreed. “And the bathhouse? More beauty treatments?”

“Unfortunately. Camien fashion for ladies has changed since the last time I was here. I must be adjusted to suit said fashion.” She shifted on her feet. “It has been deeply uncomfortable.”

It occurred to Starscream that Windblade’s face might be red not because of her embarrassment--which was receding--but because of the beauty treatments foisted upon her. He decided to change tack. “Do Camien ladies always use the bathhouse on Temple grounds, instead of the palace?”

Windblade’s eyes widened with surprise, the blueness of her eyes deepening in the light. “Oh, no, my lord. The palace bathhouses are for the lords. The ladies visit this one for propriety’s sake.”

“And I suppose that if there are any...ladies’ complaints,” he said delicately, “it’s helpful to have priestesses and healers on hand here instead of calling for them.”

She nodded with a slight smile. “You begin to understand the intricacies of our court, my lord.”

“Do I,” he reflected.

“If you do not mind the question, my lord, why are you in the Temple?” she tilted her head, and he watched in fascination as more of the rolls of hair flopped against her neck. “I would have been happy to guide you through it. I was educated here.”

He heard a slight reproof in her voice, and he tilted his head in the acknowledgement of it. However, it did not mean she was right. “I am here to meet with the Mother Superior,” he said. “Purely as a diplomatic mission, though I have intentions of asking for copies from her library. I had intended to discuss our...agriculture problems, but that discussion can be tabled until you are able to participate in it. Which will not be today, I assume.”

“Not at all,” she said. “If you do not mind waiting for me to change, I will be more than happy to join you with the Mother Superior.”

He allowed himself to feel a certain twinge of satisfaction at how easily she fell into his plan. He had been willing to meet with the Mother Superior alone, of course--he wasn’t afraid of her--but if Windblade was there to ‘smooth his way’, as it were, he wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of the presented opportunity.

“I have nothing but time,” he replied, and she gifted him with a small, shy smile. He was coming to like this quieter, reserved Windblade. He understood why being home made her retreat into whatever shelter she had created for herself, but it made her spontaneous emotional reactions more...appealing. Even if she was attempting not to die of mortification, it was still a response he wouldn’t have seen back in Iacon.

She turned too quickly and stepped on the hem of her robe. His skin fizzed with amusement as she stumbled forward, brought up short by the ungainly robe, and he reached out to grab her arms to steady her. She managed to get her feet back under her where they belonged, but she paused to catch her breath. He didn’t see the point of releasing her yet. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, her cheeks red with embarrassment again. “I--the bathhouses lacked robes in my exact size, my lord, and all of the other options were too short.”

“I, too, suffer occasionally from a lack of preparation for my size,” he said.

His innuendo hit the mark as Windblade’s cheeks flushed further, but her eyes sharpened with interest. She inhaled to respond--and he dearly wanted to know what she was going to say--but then the door slid open and released a warm fog that encircled the both of them. “Windblade, I was--,” Thunderblast cut herself off as she took in their rather compromised position, if a lord touching a lady he was not attached to (yet) was compromising. Her gaze narrowed speculatively, and Windblade straightened. Starscream allowed it, too interested in the rising tension between the two to fight her.

“I am required elsewhere,” Windblade said.

Thunderblast’s eyes raked over them both. “I can see that.”

Instead of flushing at the undertone, Windblade lifted her chin and the room heated a little, helped along by the mist. “Lord Starscream has requested my presence in his meeting with the Mother Superior in an effort to discuss our ongoing agricultural project,” she said imperiously. “I must attend to my duty.”

Thunderblast’s eyes snapped to his. “Do you _really_ need her, my lord?” she appealed. “I have just engaged the services of the private depilator, and she’s really very busy most of the time!”

Windblade blanched, and Starscream turned that sentence over in his mind until he knew what ‘private depilator’ meant. Then _he_ blanched. “No, no,” he said, “I really must insist on her presence.”

Thunderblast sighed. “Very well.” She eyeballed Windblade again. “Are you attending to the Mother Superior like that, sister?”

“No,” Windblade snapped. With graceful, quick movements, she pinched part of her dress skirt up and marched back into the bathhouse. Thunderblast glanced at Starscream and rolled her eyes, as though Starscream would agree that Windblade was being overly dramatic, before she trotted after Windblade.

He did not have long to wait. Windblade appeared in a longer version of the black dress she had worn when she had shown him the greenhouses--the skirt was full, and the wool made swishing noises as she joined him. Her hair was still in the silk rolls, but it was caught up in a brilliant carmine scarf. He pointed to it. “You don’t wish for the Mother Superior to see your rolls?”

“It’s another part of the hair treatment,” she groused. “I will be free of the dratted thing in two days. I can hardly wait.”

He stifled a chuckle. “Do you mind the trappings of your rank so much, then?”

She sighed gustily, thankfully taking his question as a tease instead of a more serious remark. “I dislike wasting my time,” she said. “I am not allowed to read or even stitch while my hair is being worked on, so that no movement interrupts the hairdresser. If I could work while I was being worked on, perhaps I wouldn’t mind so much. And for some reason, the entire thing is entertaining to the people around me!”

He could see how people would find Windblade’s irritation with her _coiffure_ entertaining-- _he_ was entertained--but he could sympathize with the hatred of wasted time. “Entertainment must be lacking, then.”

She touched his elbow to lead him into the main hall and toward the office of the Mother Superior. Priests in multiple colors of robes--varying shades of blue, some black, red, and even green--bustled around them, stopping to bow quickly to Windblade. She nodded to them and greeted some by name, and they looked happy at her knowledge of them. Starscream ignored the rising whispers from the growing crowd as Windblade led him through the main hall to the slightly smaller set of halls. The Mother Superior’s door was open, and Windblade knocked twice on the doorframe.

The Mother Superior was in a dark teal robe with a gauzy veil pinned to her grey hair. Her eyes were a softer blue than her robe, and there was a warm look of welcome in them when she surveyed Windblade. “My dear child,” she said as she rose. “It has been a long time.” She stretched out her hands, and Windblade squeezed her hands before they both let go.

“Dear Mother, this is Lord Starscream. He allowed me to join your tête-à-tête, if that is permissible for you.”

“I believe the issue he inquired about also involves you, so your presence is entirely appropriate. Come, sit, and I’ll order some tea.” She led them to the small sofas in the corner of her office and she rang the tiny bell on her desk. A novice popped into the room, and the Mother Superior spoke to them in Camien. Windblade hid a smile behind her hand as she sat on the smaller of the two sofas. Starscream raised his eyebrows at her as he sat down on the other one. “Should I be concerned?”

“Hardly,” Windblade said. “The Mother Superior’s favorite dish are fried sweetbreads, but she wouldn’t foist that on visitors who might be unused to it.” Starscream’s eyes widened. “Don’t _worry_ ,” she said with a slight laugh. “She won’t do that to you. She’s ordered some sesame and almond cookies, which will go marvelously with the sweetened mint tea.”

“Are you telling me you enjoy sweetbreads? I’m not certain I can know you,” he deadpanned.

“I enjoy it in stews and cooked in citrus juice,” she teased. “But I do not like it fried. Are we friends again?”

“I suppose,” he conceded. He looked up at the Mother Superior as she drew her comfortable-looking chair over.

“Tell me everything,” the Mother Superior ordered. “Every detail.”

Windblade glanced at Starscream. “May I, my lord?”

“Feel free.” He leaned back against the sofa and stretched out his legs as Windblade started. She _had_ been doing more research--she laid out a fuller picture than the one she had previously discussed with him. She had somehow found crop reports from right before the war--how had the Camiens gotten their hands on previous years’ _crop reports?_ \--and used that to sketch out the true size of the problem. Starscream’s insides squeezed as he realized just how bad it was. The survival crops had lulled him into thinking that the problem was manageable, but from Windblade’s words, he saw that the full field surrounding Iacon--miles and miles worth of land--had once been arable land, and had supported the entire Northern region.

His anger and--yes, fear must have been somehow visible, because Windblade reached out to squeeze his knee without breaking off her narrative. The Mother Superior’s eyes fastened on the gesture, and Windblade pulled her hand away to gesture her part in attempting to solve the problem.

For the moment, Starscream chose to remain silent about the success of Skywarp’s tree in his quarters at home. Knowing Windblade, she would feel obligated to open a vein to enrich the ground, but blood magic, as powerful as it could be, could not solve a problem of this size, and even with his shriveled morals, it would not be fair to apply that particular solution.

When Windblade finished, the Mother Superior pursed her lips. “It sounds like a geass.”

Starscream quirked his eyebrows. “A--ghesh?”

“ _Geass_ ,” she corrected. “A step away from a curse, but where a curse is targeted toward an individual, a geass is more of a--a stop. I suspect--though naturally the crop reports of centuries ago do not exist any longer--that it was a gradual process, the withdrawing of life from the surrounding area. A bit here and a bit there until all of the land surrounding the city was dead.”

“What can we do about it?” Windblade asked anxiously.

“To be fair, I’m not certain,” the Mother Superior admitted. “But your plan to consult Solus during the Long Night is a good one, and I will ensure the Sacred Chamber is prepared for you.” She looked to Starscream. “Will you be joining her, my lord?”

“Yes,” Starscream said, to his and Windblade’s surprise. “It’s my country and my people. It is only right that I also petition Solus for them.”

The Mother Superior raised her eyebrows and looked impressed. At some point during Windblade’s recitation, the novice had brought in the cookies and tea, and the Mother Superior helped herself to some of the sesame cookies. “I myself will cleanse the two of you and have the correct robes. Be here two hours before the ceremonies are due to begin. For you to enter Solus’ presence, you must be prepared.” She stood. “That is all I can offer at this point.”

Windblade rose also and clasped the Mother Superior’s hands again. “Thank you so much.”

The Mother Superior kissed her cheek. “My darling, I know you would not have asked if you had any other recourse.”

Starscream stood up to grab one of the Mother Superior’s hands. He squeezed it and said, “Thank you.”

She turned his hand squeeze into a grip and she examined him, her blue eyes turning paler for a moment. Then she released him. “I hope that the Long Night will provide the wisdom you seek.”

Starscream raised his eyebrows but began to leave. The Mother Superior said, “My lady princess, a moment?”

Windblade shrugged at Starscream before she turned back to the Mother Superior. Starscream exited the room, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying through the open door, and his ears buzzed when he tried. That felt like magic--no wonder the Mother Superior didn’t need to close her door.

When Windblade came out, he saw that she was irritated, but that smoothed out once she saw him. “So where to next for you, my lord? Back to the palace?”

“I would prefer to remain out of your brother’s way. I may have implied that the only reason why I could join him and Thunderblast for a lengthy card game was because of this meeting and how long it was going to be.” He shrugged. “I _did_ think it would be longer.”

She smiled impishly at him. “The Mother Superior doesn’t believe in half-measures, and she has always known how to make use of me.” Despite the phrasing, she was beaming, and enlightenment struck.

He reached out to grasp her hand, if only because she was warmer than he was. “It appeals to your ego, to be seen as useful,” he parsed. That was something he could work with.

She flushed. “That’s very...That’s limiting.”

“But true.” He squeezed her hand. “There is a trap to that kind of thinking, however.”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me,” she sighed. Still, she held onto his hand.

“You could get trapped into doing only what other people want you to do. When it comes time for you to do something that _you_ want or you need, if it runs contrary to what others demand, your mind will get caught up in this terrible knot as you try to do what you need for yourself as well as pleasing others. Your validation can’t come from others entirely.”

She looked up at him, her lashes tangled at the corners of her eyes, keeping her from opening them fully. “That sounds...oddly specific.”

He looked away from her. “I knew someone during the war who was a lot like you,” he said, “only there was the added complication of him having a full household to travel with as we moved from base to base. He wanted desperately to make Megatron pleased with him, but as war turns, it’s impossible to please your commander all the time, and whenever he didn’t, he got run-down. There was a string of years when it appeared we were going to lose, and he was depressed because of his apparent failure.”

“He was?” Windblade asked delicately.

Starscream waved with his free hand. “Oh, he’s all right now. I released him from service after I killed Megatron. I thought that he rather deserved the time to be with his family and to heal from everything that had happened.”

“That was generous.”

Starscream shrugged. “I may be a bastard, but with so many orphans in the war, and the few good turns he did do for me, I thought it was only fair to put him out to pasture. He’s a musician in his spare time. Every so often, he sends me some of his compositions. I think it’s helping his mind iron out all the knots caused from the war and the aftermath.”

“Let me guess, you insisted he went far away from Iacon and the Autobot faction?”

“Purely as an altruistic suggestion,” he said.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Do you miss him?”

“Not really. He was...not like me. Which was good, in some ways, but in others made him utterly boring.”

“Do you find _me_ boring?”

He lifted her hand up to kiss the top of it. Her cheeks flared scarlet, just as he intended. “I appreciate where you and he differ.”

Windblade swallowed hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter gets weird, so something to look forward to.
> 
> As a reminder, my contest is still ongoing! If you can identify the real-world counterparts of the following diseases, I'll give you a sneak peek at something special to come. These diseases are:
> 
> Lung sickness (this is a complication of a respiratory infection)  
> Lung fever (this disease was very fashionable in the 19th century; also one of the oldest diseases in human history)  
> Rice water fever (the name is a clue)  
> Red pox (this disease changed the course of history several times)  
> Strangler (hint: this starred as an antagonist in a children's movie)  
> Rot (particularly known in the American Civil War)
> 
> I can't wait to hear your thoughts!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to carry on my challenge for one more chapter--next chapter, I will announce the winner and the way to contact me to get a glimpse of something _interesting_ to come. 
> 
> A brief wrinkle: ONE answer per disease, okay? If you have already submitted but would like to change your answers, I will accept the most recent posting.
> 
> Here they are again:  
> Lung sickness (this is a complication of a respiratory infection)  
> Lung fever (this disease was very fashionable in the 19th century; also one of the oldest diseases in human history)  
> Rice water fever (the name is a clue)  
> Red pox (this disease changed the course of history several times)  
> Strangler (hint: this starred as an antagonist in a children's movie)  
> Rot (particularly known in the American Civil War)
> 
> This chapter contains descriptions of animal wounds.

**CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE MEANING OF DEATH**

Windblade undid the silk rolls and winced at the ribbons that snagged in her hair. Her hair fell down in a mess, and she sighed as she placed the silk rolls on the the vanity desk. She found a wide-toothed comb and started to work it through her hair.

There was a knock- _knock_ -knock at her door, and Windblade grinned. “Come in!”

Lightbright stuck her foot in the door slider and pushed the door aside. She carried a large tray in her arms, and she placed it on the small table in the ‘sitting room’ of the suite. She closed the door behind her as Windblade rose to greet her.

“We missed you at supper,” Lightbright said as she wrapped her arms around Windblade. “Are you all right?”

“I wasn’t in the mood to be pricked by Hot Shot,” Windblade explained. She glanced at the tray. “So you brought up dinner?”

“I thought we could share,” Lightbright confirmed. “Windblade! Your hair!”

“What? What is it?” Windblade lifted up a bunch of hair and raised her eyebrows at the half that was pure silver against her dark hair. “Oh, that.”

“‘Oh, that’?” Lightbright sat down on the edge of the sofa and poured the tea for them both. “I’m surprised at your lack of surprise.”

“I was warned that would happen,” Windblade shrugged as she tied a ribbon to keep her hair out of her face before she joined Lightbright on the sofa. “It’s a potion to show which part of my hair is dead for the hairdresser.”

“That’s quite a bit,” Lightbright said.

Windblade shrugged again as she took the small teacup from the tray. “I haven’t had the time or the staff to be able to tend to it the way Thunderblast does. Besides, it gives me an excuse to cut it.”

“It will still leave a lot of hair,” Lightbright warned. “It will end around mid-back instead of your lower back.”

“Still, it’s something.” Windblade spooned some garlic and ginger sauce over a small dish of rice.

Lightbright quirked an eyebrow playfully. “You know, _we_ could cut it.”

“Oh?”

“Well, it needs another treatment, right? Before you meet with the hairdresser. And Thunderblast does like to tease you so she would want to use this to point out how you’re not tending to yourself the way she would expect you to. The bit of silver would give her ammunition for days.”

“It would still be cut,” Windblade pointed out.

“But she wouldn’t get to lord it over you. I wouldn’t mind pulling one over on her.”

Windblade ducked her head to hide a smile. “I like that idea.” She picked up the last of the rice. “How _was_ dinner?”

“You mean, did Lord Starscream appear to miss you at the table?” Lightbright teased. “He got caught up in a discussion about tax reform with Mother.”

“I wasn’t speaking about Starscream,” Windblade said.

“Oh, _‘Starscream,’_ ” Lightbright nudged her. “No honorifics? You two must be closer than all of us had thought.”

Windblade’s cheeks flared with heat. She hadn’t meant to be so obvious. “Not quite that close.”

“Leave your dishes, I’ll cut your hair.” Lightbright rose to go into the main part of the room. Windblade followed after her and sat down at the vanity table while Lightbright unearthed a pair of shearing scissors. “The Mother Superior told me what you spoke about this afternoon.”

Windblade stiffened a little. “There are always rumors about me, you know that.”

“In this case, I am inclined to agree with her.”

“You can’t possibly think that I would lead anyone on,” Windblade protested.

“I don’t believe that you are leading him on,” Lightbright said quietly as she started to cut away large swaths of silver hair. “There are rumors that he is going to ask you to marry him.”

Windblade flapped her hand. “He wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“He’s--not the marrying kind, Lightbright. I think if he had wanted to be married, he would have already done so.”

“And if he _were_ the marrying kind? Would you do it?”

“I don’t want to be married,” Windblade whispered.

“Windblade,” Lightbright met Windblade’s eyes in the silver mirror. “You shouldn’t base your ideas about what marriage is because of what happened with Elita.”

“I haven’t. Mother doesn’t want me to be married, and I like my independence.”

Lightbright chose her words with care. “I think it was more that Mother didn’t want you married to _Elita_. And you can still have your independence if you married.”

“Can I?” Windblade asked bitterly. “Really? Who wants a wife who’s constantly immersed in work instead of acting a jewel in their crown?”

“Lord Starscream might. And protest all you like, you do like him.”

“His company can be...agreeable. Lightbright, he has baggage I don’t fully understand, and I’m not certain I _want_ to. There’s a difference between attraction and affection, and if I can’t figure it out, then he’s not the one for me. I don’t want to marry someone based on attraction alone.”

“Well, that’s good. Windblade, just--put aside Mother’s expectations for a moment. What do _you_ want from your life? If you’d like to take the veil or even just to have a farm somewhere, I promise that I will move heaven and earth to make it happen. You’ve lived to everyone else’s tune your whole life. What do _you_ want?”

Windblade stared off into the distance as Lightbright combed out the hair clippings. “I want to be useful, more than anything else,” Windblade said finally. “But…” her voice got smaller. “I want the power to be useful and to decide what’s best for me to put my effort into. If I tell someone to do something, I don’t want them to double-check with Mother or Hot Shot to be sure that I am allowed to give orders. I would like to be obeyed the first time.”

“You will never have that here,” Lightbright reached for the last bottle of hair tonic and poured it over her hands. “Hot Shot resents you too much. I don’t understand why.”

“He resents that I have better control over fire, that I am more intelligent than he is, and that I command more loyalty than he does,” Windblade said. “I want people to disagree with me and tell me why so we can find a better path to success. He doesn’t want to be challenged.”

“Not by you, anyway,” Lightbright murmured. “What you want...you could have that in Cybertron. Is that where you want it?”

“Cybertron is dead, Lightbright. I don’t know how to bring it back. It’s why we spoke to the Mother Superior this afternoon. I need help.”

“I want you to be content if you can’t be happy,” Lightbright told her. “But you should understand that the rumors swirling have more teeth to them than usual.” She hesitated. “Windblade--.”

“I’ve never brought another lord here to meet Mother,” Windblade dismissed. “The rumors will die down, like they always do.” She smiled at Lightbright in the mirror. “But you’re sweet to warn me.”

Lightbright shook her head. “Hand me some of those rollers. I want you to surprise the hairdresser tomorrow.”

\--

Starscream opened the door to see a footman waiting for him. “The Princess asked me to give you this,” the footman said, proffering an envelope. Starscream took it and disappeared back into his rooms.

His rooms were too cold, and he shifted on his feet in front of the fire as he slit the top of the envelope. In Windblade’s sloping hand--royals were taught ‘proper’ penmanship--he read an invitation to join her for hawking later that morning in the land above the palace. There was no need to send a reply back, the note went on, as long as he joined her in the stables at the fourth hour past dawn.

He glanced at the clock above the mantel and saw that it was half past the second hour of dawn. If he hurried, he could shave and get dressed before meeting her at the stables. He was grateful for the heating rack. It made getting into riding clothes much easier.

Windblade was already there when he found his way down into the stables. Her hair was braided and a cap with a jaunty feather pinned to it, and she wore a knee-length robe tied over full leggings. So she was feeling the cold too, he thought grumpily. A hooded hawk was perched on her arm.

“Good morning,” she said with a cheerful smile. “Did you get a chance to get something to eat?”

“No,” he said sullenly.

“Here,” she offered him a thermos and something warm tucked into a napkin, the hawk bating as she stretched her arm out to him. When he took them, she mounted her horse with only one free arm, and he was reluctantly impressed. He opened the napkin to find an odd-looking turnover, and he stuffed it in his mouth as he mounted his horse. The turnover had a meat and gravy filling, and he appreciated it as Windblade led him out and into the main field. She walked her horse until they were side-by-side. “Did you sleep well?” she inquired.

“Well enough. I just wish my room was warmer,” he said as he finished the turnover and unscrewed the thermos and drank the tea to wash the crumbs from his mouth. “The fireplace just isn’t enough.”

“Do you have enough blankets?” she asked as she started to remove the hood from the hawk. The hawk bated again, showing white feathers at the breast. “I can order more for you if you wish.”

He screwed the top back on the thermos. “The issue isn’t the blankets. It’s the fact that the room doesn’t hold heat very well.”

“There’s a reason for that,” she said as she unhooked the jesses and hood from the hawk. “It’s an old custom.” She threw her arm up, and with a scream, the hawk took off and sailed to the top of the sky, where warm thermals allowed it to coast and dance as Windblade kicked her horse into a gallop. Starscream copied her as she looked at him. The angle of her cap make her askance glance appear almost _saucy_. “The idea is,” Windblade said as their horses started to run up a hill, “that guests remember that they are guests and that their visit is only temporary. So according to _that_ …”

“No need to make it too comfortable.” He made a face at her, and she laughed in the late morning light. “An old custom, you say?”

“I should have remembered it earlier,” she confessed as they topped the hill and started the run down. “I’ll order an extra brazier for your room. That should be easier.”

“Do your siblings show such concern for their guests?”

Windblade rolled her eyes as her horse picked up speed. “Any guests that Hot Shot and Thunderblast have are placed in the family wing,” she called. “It was Hot Shot who made your arrangements.”

In his surprise, he allowed her to overtake him. When he realized she was almost two horse-lengths ahead of him, he nudged his horse to catch up. “Your _brother?!”_

“He wasn’t sure what kind of person you were,” Windblade said over her shoulder. The air was the kind of cold that was still, but still managed to seep in everywhere. “No reason to be polite if you were on my side.”

“At least in my family, if we don’t like each other we express it by trying to kill each other,” he grumbled as he caught up with her. “None of this passive warfare nonsense.”

“It sounds lovely,” she said wistfully as they rounded the top of a hill and descended into a small slough. “Apart from the attempted murder nonsense.”

There were a series of stones and boulders in the very center of the slough, and Windblade slowed her horse as they approached. When Starscream glanced at the sun, he saw that they had been riding for an hour or so. “I don’t suppose _you_ could inquire about me changing rooms?” he asked as she dismounted and started the process of removing her horse’s tack. He copied her, a little bemused at how she was going about things.

Windblade got a strange look on her face. “I think that Hot Shot is better to appeal to,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Out of her saddlebags, she removed a contraption of metal and string, and as she snapped rods into place, he rubbed down his horse and threw a blanket over his horse’s back. When he turned back to her, the contraption was revealed to be a perch. “She needs to stretch her wings and hunt for herself for a bit,” Windblade explained as she drew out a leather satchel from her other saddlebag. “Then she’ll have some things for us.” In the space between the stones, where it was only hard, packed dirt, Windblade placed long rectangular crystals. She snapped her fingers, and they glowed with light and--Starscream waved a gloved hand over them--welcome heat. “But there’s no need to freeze until then,” she teased.

“Are these the famous Camien crystals?” Starscream asked, fascinated. “Thundercracker wants some for home. What crystal are they?”

“Quartz, mostly.” Windblade spread a blanket on the stone nearest to the crystals and sat down. “Some of the Initiates use different kinds of quartz--apparently the light from rose quartz is helpful for healing spells, and I know that some merchants prefer obsidian, but I like quartz.” She gave the crystals a fond look. “It’s steady light.”

“How is it done?” Starscream inquired as he stripped off his gloves and held his hands over the crystals. “Do you know?”

“Trade secret,” she said lightly. “I’m not allowed to talk about it.” From the second saddlebag, she pulled yet another leather bag from it, but when she opened it, he saw an embroidery hoop and small drawstring bag with embroidery silks.

“So we are not going hawking?” he asked delicately.

“Oh, _she’s_ hawking,” Windblade answered as she drew out a blue thread and ran it through the eye of her needle. “But I thought it might be nice to talk for a bit where we can’t be overheard.” She bit down on the thread and knotted the shorter end. “About magical education,” she clarified. “When did you know?”

He shrugged and sat down next to her. She was embroidering some purple and blue flower. It shimmered with the barest red glow, but he didn’t bother to ask. “It took me a while. I knew I had magic because I could do the basic spells everyone could--call light, move things short distances--but I didn’t know that I had death magic until a Praxian assassin attempted to kill me.” He scowled at the memory. “I saw the arrow coming toward me and I wanted it to hit whoever dared to shoot at me. When it did, I felt--something.” He looked down at his hands. “Later, I realized what I had felt was the person’s spark leaving their body.”

“How did you know they were Praxian?”

He bit down on the rude reply. She’s Camien, he reminded himself. They approach things differently. “It was in the weapon used and the spells that they used to cloak themselves.”

“But magic isn’t regional, is it?” she was confused as her needle darted in and out of her cloth. “In Caminus, most spells are developed in the Temples, but they are made available for everyone.”

“You have hedge healers who hide their secrets,” he pointed out.

“They hide their recipes,” she disagreed, “not their spells.”

He shook his head. “Prior to the Cybertronian Empire,” he said, for a moment feeling like the teacher he had cherished hopes of when he was younger, “each city-state had their own government, culture, and magical practices. It was death to share magical practices and spells with rival states.” Several operas had featured that as a rather prominent storyline. “As Iacon and the Primes expanded until all of the city-states were under one banner, the day-to-day running of each city-state didn’t change much. It was no longer death to share spells and practices, but there still remained specific practices that belonged to states, and they were...noticeable.”

Windblade switched out her blue thread for a lighter blue. “So those spells were Praxian?”

“Northern Cybertronian city-state governments tended toward more democratic ideals,” he said dryly. “When the Senate turned to itself to maintain power, those Northern cities supported it because they shared the same government style. Southern Cybertron, on the other hand, tended to rely more on monarchies. Iacon attempted to destabilize the region by removing all in power in Kaon and Tarn. It certainly worked there, and Kaon and Tarn were never stable again. But Vos and a few others held out. What made the difference, at least in Vos, is that multiple births were common—Thundercracker and Skywarp were twins—and in our education and training, we were tested to see who had the best temperament to rule and then we were taught accordingly. There is a difference between someone suddenly in power with no experience in it and someone who was raised and educated to rule. That part always got lost in Northern propaganda, somehow. Anyway, when it became clear that Megatron--he was from Tarn, by the way--was beginning his uprising and had approached Vos for support and funds, I believe that the Senate thought if they sent one of their own assassins to kill me, in an attempt to make it look like it was someone from Tarn or Kaon, then Vos would side with the Senate.” He gave her a razor’s smile. “They planned badly.”

“How old were you?” she asked, her fingers pausing in her work.

“Twelve.”

“Twelve,” she echoed. She shook her head. “When I was twelve, I was just beginning my education at the Temple.”

“When did you know?” he asked, no longer interested in discussing his history.

“I was tested for fire magic as a toddler,” she said as she bent over her work again. “You don’t want to use candles around a toddler who can cause flames to erupt in a temper-tantrum.”

“That’s oddly specific. Did it happen to you?”

“Not me,” she said. “Hot Shot. The testers said that I was unusually powerful. They knew I could manipulate flame, because I had been seen doing so, but they didn’t understand where my magic came from.” She looked at him. “You may have noticed most people don’t see my magic.”

“I can,” he said, “but most people can’t see mine either. So then what?”

“My father died,” she answered. Her face was hidden as she focused on her stitching. “It was--it was a shock to me. Mother found another partner and was pregnant again, and in the meantime I was making friends with any animals I could come across. Even the mice, to her disgust.” Windblade giggled a little. “Normally, six and seven year olds are taught to spin and to weave, but while I could sew, all would-be thread and fabrics just twisted up in my hands. No one might ever have guessed that it was life magic, except that when Mother was due, they thought the baby might be dead. I could see how afraid she was, and I didn’t want her to be afraid, so I put my hands on her stomach and just--wished that the baby was alive. She went into labor after that, and Hot Shot was born.”

Starscream leaned back against the rock. “So you are the reason your brother is alive. Does he know that?”

“He might feel indebted to me,” Windblade said dryly. “And we can’t have that. I didn’t even know what I had done. I only knew the baby hadn’t been moving and then it was. Mother knew, though. That was when she started watching me with the cats and the falcons. I don’t know what she saw, she never told me, but my spinning lessons stopped and I went out to the gardens instead.”She raised her head so that she could find a deep purple thread. “I was happier there.”

“What might have happened had we never learned?” he wondered aloud.

“I would have found out eventually,” she said. “If not in the gardens, then in the healing halls. From what it sounds like, Megatron’s revolution was inevitable?”

He considered it. “The Senate was bound for ruin,” he replied. “Everyone knew that. The Senate enabled city-states like Polyhex and Praxus, so there was no way they would abandon the Senate. Praxus was the base for the Cybertronian military academy. Kaon had had its’ own military academy, but that was destroyed when the Senate removed Kaon’s Duke from power. As for the other city-states...the South sided with Megatron with because they had borne the brunt of the Senate’s excesses. The South was and is very rich in resources, of all kinds, but Southerners were starving while the Senate grew richer. There were manufactured famines and lack of medical care, and it was a recipe for disaster. The North profited from the exploitation, so they weren’t about to change things. Yes, in that light, the revolution was inevitable.”

“Did you use your magic more than any weapons during the conflict?” she asked. He detected anxiety from her, and he held back the _Naturally, my dear_. That wouldn’t help.

“At first, I relied more on weapons. I knew how they worked, and I wasn’t sure how my magic worked. When there was another assassination attempt, not too long after I joined Megatron’s forces--this one was from one of his people who resented me ‘hijacking’ Megatron--I found out that I was one of the few who could resist his particular power. He trafficked in death, and knew all sorts of death spells and the like, but the difference between us is that it was something he worked to master, and--when I am roused--I _am_ Death.” He smirked. “He failed, and I left him something to remember me by.”

She shivered. “So it has saved your life.”

“On more than one occasion.” He gazed at her. “Why do you want to understand this?”

She rested her needle for a moment. “Caminus hasn’t gone to war in generations. I have no frame of reference for what you have survived, except for the rumors and gossip that managed to find their way here. I will never understand war and what happened to you, but I would like to try.” She met his eyes. “Some of your reactions are strange to me. Sometimes you don’t seem like you’re looking at what’s happening around you. You don’t touch people, and you rarely show any emotion except anger and determination. I know you have a sense of humor, but I don’t think you show it much.” She hesitated. “Am I doing wrong by you to ask? If so, I can find other subjects. It’s just...you show just as much curiosity about me.”

He supposed that was true. “You have a horror of death.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I might not have seen war, but I have seen pestilence and famine. Death is...terrible there.”

“Yet it’s a part of life,” he reminded her. “It’s necessary.”

“I agree,” she said, “I just don’t like to watch it happen.”

He didn’t exactly agree with her on that one, but he let the matter drop. “So you and your siblings were all tested for fire magic?”

“All positive,” she said. The flower she was embroidering was taking the shape of a purple crocus. “Though Hot Shot’s was so slight that they missed it the first time--until he had a tantrum and nearly set his nursery on fire.”

“Explain fire magic to me.”

She quirked her lips in amusement. “Well, it’s what happens when magic acts as a catalyst to light the air and--.”

“No,” he waved it off. “How does it work, precisely?”

“Fire magic depends on control,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “Typically everyone can light a candle, but for fire witches, the more control over flame you have, the more you can do with it. It’s actually rather shameful that Hot Shot can’t conjure his own flames. That is a fairly basic control exercise.”

“So despite what it would appear, fire magic is not an untamed branch of magic.”

She shuddered at the thought. “Hardly! Otherwise fire witches would burn up the first time they got well and truly angry. It’s a mark of someone’s skill that they can work flame while they are in the throes of deep emotion. That doesn’t stop fire witches from being able to harm others, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know,” she said vaguely. “Didn’t Thundercracker lose his temper with you while you were growing up?”

“Rarely,” he snorted. “Thundercracker liked lightning and it wouldn’t come if he was shouting. It took concentration.”

“Yes, well.” Windblade knotted a thread and selected a green one. “That hasn’t been my experience.”

“Fire witches aren’t immune to fire?”

“Oh, we can learn how to fire-walk, if that’s what you mean. But we can be overwhelmed.”

He kept his voice low. “Have you been overwhelmed?”

She kept her eyes on her needlework. “Once. Only once.”

“What happened? Did you run into a burning building?” He was joking, a little, but when Windblade’s hands stilled, he realized it was something worse.

“Hot Shot lost his temper with me one day when he was twelve,” she said. “My mother took steps to ensure it never happened again.”

Even he could tell when she wasn’t going to talk anymore. “I was burned, once,” he said. “I was holding the line in an abandoned barn, and the Autobots threw in a bomb full of liquid flame. It spattered all over us. My team died immediately, but I had gotten off more lightly than them, but I still spent weeks recovering. Our main healers weren’t anywhere near our battalion.” He cocked his head at her. “And yet you’re not afraid of fire?”

“Fire is a friend,” she said with a bitter chuckle. “Hot Shot’s fire isn’t. I know the difference, now.”

“So he did that to you and he’s still the heir?”

“If you want to understand the intricacies of our inheritance,” she said, “then you had best discuss it with Mother. _I_ don’t understand it.”

Before he could answer, there was a shrill cry. Windblade put aside her embroidery and whistled, and the hawk--no, it was too big to be a hawk now that he could see the bird’s wingspan--sailed down to drop three rabbits on the stone near them. The bird alit on the perch and whistled again.

“ _Good_ girl,” Windblade said as she pulled on a falconer’s glove. She offered her wrist to the bird’s murderous claws and gave the bird a few nibbles from the leather pouch at her belt. “Did you enjoy your flight?”

The bird bated and shrieked, to Windblade’s amusement. “I’m just connecting you to the perch for now,” she told the bird. “I’ll unhook you in a bit, after we cook up these rabbits.” The bird consented to return to the perch and to have the jesses hooked in.

“What kind of hawk is that?” Starscream demanded as Windblade pulled off the glove and went digging in her saddlebags. “It’s huge!”

“We call her a cloud eagle,” Windblade said. “She’s the largest hunter we have in our mews. I raised her,” she was proud at her ability to tame such a monster! He shook his head.

“Is that something to be proud of?”

She gave him a Look and he subsided. She found what she was looking for--a selection of knives. He goggled as she pulled a smock over her riding dress and put on gloves before going to work on the rabbits. She was neat and methodical, but he had _never_ seen a princess comfortable with the work it took to dress wild game.

While he goggled, she dressed two of the rabbits and set the meat up to cook directly on the crystals. The third she dressed and offered to the cloud eagle, who tore it apart eagerly. “If you keep your mouth open for much longer,” she teased as she wiped her hands on the grass, “you’ll catch things in it.”

“You know how to dress game,” he accused.

“Yes,” she said.

“ _Why?_ ”

She shrugged. “When I was training her, I used to shove some food into my saddlebags and just ride. Then, when it came time to train her to bring me her kills, I found out that I needed to teach her what was acceptable to eat and who it was acceptable to come from. I learned by necessity.”

“But I would think it would bother you.”

“It did, at first,” she admitted. “But now it doesn’t. It keeps her fed, and it means we don’t have to cut our afternoon short. Excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“To wash off the blood,” she said with amusement. “Keep an eye on the meat, would you? I’d like it cooked, not scorched.”

Grumbling to himself, he took over the meat-tending. At least it was warm over the fire, though he had to be wary of grease. When Windblade came back, the leather gloves were tucked into her riding belt and the clean, slightly damp smock was tucked over her arm. “You seem so well-prepared, I’m surprised we’re searing this,” he said, his habit of snarking at people to start a fight too ingrained not to give into the temptation.

Windblade rolled her eyes, but she didn’t seem upset. It was getting harder to upset her, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. He liked it when he knew peoples’ buttons. She was hiding hers better. “We weren’t going far,” she explained. “Whenever I went on long rides with the Torchbearers, to visit the more remote villages, they taught me how to pack for that. If we were going farther than a two-hour ride, I would have brought some of my gear.”

“You would be happier if you weren’t a princess,” he told her. “Then you could work the way want to.”

“My rank does open doors for me,” she said thoughtfully. “And it gives me the power to do things--like co-opt an unused building,” she grinned at him, and he scowled at the reminder of her taking over the old Senate offices. “It’s a bit easier to be a working princess here than it would be elsewhere, like in Eukaris. The protocol is very specific there.”

“You’re going to be in Cybertron for a while,” Starscream said. A lot longer than _a while_ if he had his way, but he hadn’t been told by the Mistress of Flame that she had accepted his terms yet, and it would be humiliating to discuss marriage with Windblade only to have the Mistress of Flame refuse. “I mean to work you hard.”

She flushed at his innuendo, but in his defense, this time it _was_ unintentional. “I look forward to it,” she said as she leaned over to flip the rabbit. “I have ideas for what I want to do.”

“Excellent. You should know--.”

The cloud eagle cut him off by sudden screeching and loud bating. Windblade jumped to her feet. “Easy, girl,” she soothed as she pulled on the leather gloves. “What do you need?”

The cloud eagle picked at her jesses. “Okay, okay,” Windblade said as she offered another tidbit to the cloud eagle, who was happy to eat it while Windblade unhooked the jesses to release the eagle from her perch. Once she was free, the cloud eagle screeched and flew off, clipping Windblade’s forehead with a wing. Windblade cupped a hand over the bleeding cut and shook her head. “She got excited,” she told Starscream as she went rooting through her saddlebags to find her medical kit. “I’ve had more careless wounds from her than intentional ones.”

“That makes it all right?” he demanded as she found a wad of gauze and her cleaning liquid.

“This is a love tap,” she dismissed. “You don’t work with animals and not get used to small wounds.”

“I’ve never worked with animals. They don’t seem to like me much--except for cats.”

Windblade rubbed some salve against the small cut on her eyebrow. It closed as she massaged the skin. “There are some animals who walk the worlds a bit closer than most,” she considered aloud. “Cats are one of them. So are dogs, sometimes. They might be better with you than others.”

He blinked. “Some animals walk the worlds closer than most? What does that mean?”

She gave him a sharp look at his tone. “Some animals understand the balance between life and death better than others. That’s all.”

Before he could argue with her, the cloud eagle came back with an extremely large carcass. Starscream gaped as the eagle dropped it on the ground next to them. “That’s a _stag_.”

“We trained her to only take down the males,” Windblade said as the cloud eagle screeched contentment and landed back on her perch.

“That’s a _stag_ ,” Starscream repeated. “She took down a fully-grown _stag_.”

Windblade gazed at him, nonplussed. “Yes.”

He threw his hands up in the air. “How does a rabbit feed that monster?!”

“We keep her well-fed,” Windblade said.

“I--that’s not--what the hell will you do with it?!”

“I’m not sure yet,” Windblade said as she looked over the stag with a critical eye. “I might bring it back for the servants’ supper. They deserve a treat.”

He sighed. He was never going to understand her.

They bickered as they ate their rabbit. After the crystal cooled, Windblade toddled back down to the small stream to clean up the grease and fat build-up. He laid down on the blanket and drifted a little. The air was cold, but the crystals threw off enough heat that he felt comfortable dozing.

The cloud eagle on her perch went still, and Starscream opened his eyes to see a large cat with white-and-grey spots creeping down the slough. Starscream froze and hissed, “ _Windblade._ ”

As he watched the cat sidle closer, he realized it was favoring a paw. Those paws were huge, much bigger than a dray horse’s hooves. “ _Windblade!_ ”

“I’m on my way back,” she complained as she came up and over. She stopped when she saw the cat, and magic came from her in a transparent vermillion cloud. The cat stopped also when the magic touched it, and Windblade relaxed slightly. “She’s hurt,” Windblade said in the same voice she used with her eagle. “She needs help. Can you pass me my kit and bring one of the saddle blankets?”

“...right,” he said, and he followed her instructions. Her magic grew more concentrated as she approached the cat, but she did something curious. She stopped a few feet away from the cat, and she offered her hand. Starscream tensed as he waited for the cat to savage her, but the cat sniffed her hand. Windblade waited, and then the cat draped herself on the ground and Windblade approached. She gestured for him to come to her, and as he obeyed, Windblade picked up the injured paw. There was some movement from the corner of his eye, and he looked up to see two grey-and-white spotted kittens at the treeline. He knelt down next to her as she looked over the paw. This close, he could a raw red wound on the paw, with the skin puffy and yellow pus leaking from the edges. He winced. “What happened?”

“I’m guessing,” Windblade said in that quiet, calm voice, “that she was running to take down prey and sliced her paw on a rock she didn’t see. Have you ever used your magic to heal?”

“What? No. Not at all.”

“I need your help to close this wound,” she told him. “Can you help me?”

“I’ll do my best,” he said dubiously.

“Put the blanket under her paw,” Windblade directed. Her magic retracted until it was a shimmering scarlet cloud just around her hands. “I’ll guide you, but I need your magic go in independent of mine.”

It was odd, but he listened to her. He directed his magic through the cut and nearly recoiled at the death around the wound. It was leaking into the cat’s bloodstream, and beginning to tinge her veins with the pus-yellow color he associated with death. “She’ll die of this,” he whispered to Windblade.

“Life magic is about attraction,” Windblade murmured. “So too is death. Call the death from the wound and draw it out.”

He started to sweat as he strained to do it. Invoking death was easier than banishing it. Slowly, under his will, the death started to pull back from the leg and near the heart, until it coalesced around the wound, turning all of the veins of the paw bright yellow.

“Quickly now,” Windblade urged. “Pull it out before the paw goes.”

The sweat rolled down his face as he yanked on the death sitting in the cat’s paw. It fought him, liking the warmth of the cat’s body instead of the cold nonexistence waiting for it outside of the paw. Starscream glanced up as a wind blew across his forehead, chilling the sweat, and he saw the two kittens pacing back and forth, the tips of their fluffy tails twitching.

He looked back down at the paw and summoned his anger. It was easy to do--he always had something to be angry about. _I_ am your master, he ordered the death. You _will_ do as I say.

He drained the magic, and it continued to fight him through the first drops onto the blanket, and then it came all in a gush. The cat whimpered in her throat but didn’t jump or startle. Starscream, had he the concentration, would have guessed that Windblade was keeping the cat calm. A rotten stench filled the air as the wound drained, and as he got the last of it, Windblade swooped in with her magic and filled the veins with sparkling life, to strengthen the protections against the little bit that lingered that refused to obey him. She did something else, too, but he was exhausted and pulled back to visually look at what had been done.

The weal on the paw was still red, but it was a healthy, healing red. The blanket underneath the paw had soaked up all of the pus that he had drawn from the wound, which was the source of the stench. I don’t envy the launderer, he thought with a shudder.

While he tried to simultaneously cool down and warm up, Windblade found the same tonic and salve she had used for the cut on her eyebrow, and she closed the weal, to leave a pink line across the paw. “There you go,” Windblade said. She sat back on her heels and looked at Starscream. “Are you all right?”

“I need to eat something,” he admitted.

Her face softened. “Go eat. I’ll tend to that.” She nodded to the soaked, stinking blanket.

“What, are you going to wash it?”

She shook her head. “It contains death. I’m going to burn it.”

He got to his feet and stumbled back over to their fire. The horses weren’t bothered by the big cat, and he realized they could smell she was sick. Added to that, they were too tall for her to bother with. He ate the remaining cooked rabbit as Windblade picked up the blanket briskly and carried it over to the edge of the slough. A flare of light and a thin bit of smoke later, she was brushing ashes from her dress.

“We should pack up,” she said in an undertone to him as she neared him. “I’ve helped her sleep, so that the magic I did on her paw to thicken the skin will set, but when she wakes up, she’ll want to eat the deer I’m leaving behind, but she won’t touch it while the eagle’s here.”

“What about the rabbit entrails?” he inquired as he picked up the crystals. They were pleasantly warm as he wrapped them in their leather outer covering.

“I’ll leave them too, for the kittens.” Windblade wiped the back of her forehead with a shaking hand, and he paused.

“You’re upset.”

“I’ll explain in a bit,” she said. “Let’s move.”

When they were on their way back to the palace-- _well_ on their way--Windblade slowed her horse to a walk. The cloud eagle was easily keeping pace above them as she flew on thermals. Starscream was about to ask what was wrong when Windblade’s face contorted. She buried her face in her hands as sobs burbled out of her throat, and he stopped both of their horses, unsure of what to do.

He had rarely cried, even before Megatron’s dying curse, and no one had ever wanted to be seen crying in front of him. He found a handkerchief in a pocket and offered it to her. “Windblade…?”

“I’m sorry,” she gasped as she took the handkerchief. “I just--need a moment.”

“Take all the time you need,” he said reflexively. He stroked his horse’s neck and thought about how it felt to draw death away from life. Is that what healers felt? he wondered. He had never been able to do anything like that--he had never thought to try it. Had Windblade only discovered it because she wanted to be able to heal so badly?

Windblade’s sobs died away into small gasps. “I’m sorry,” she said again, her eyes puffy. “I just--,” she gulped. “She was desperate,” she explained. “She had gotten run out of her own territory, and she--ghost cats live up in the mountains, where it’s snowy all year--she was trying to feed her kits, but when she tried to take down a goat, she sliced her paw open on a hidden rock. She knew that it was bad, but she still needed to feed her kits. If she hadn’t detected my presence, she would have tried to take down a calf from one of the wandering oxen herds. It would have killed her. She was just so _desperate_.” Tears started to drip down her face again as Windblade confronted that reality in her mind. “The kits were too young to learn how to hunt. She’ll live now, and that deer will keep them fed for a few weeks, long enough for her to get her strength back, but,” her hands were shaking as she blew her nose in the handkerchief. “I’m sorry. I get too emotionally involved.”

“You’ve apologized three times now,” he said gruffly. “There’s nothing to apologize for. No kits should be denied their dam if anyone can help it.”

Her eyes, when they met his, looked like liquid sapphires. His stomach clenched a little, and he put a hand on her wrist and squeezed lightly. “I didn’t mean to pull you into it, but I couldn’t draw out what was going to kill her.”

“It was interesting,” he said casually. “I didn’t know my magic could do that.”

She gave a wet laugh. “I want to be useful so badly that I try to find unusual ways to help.” She looked at him up through her lashes. “Thank you.”

He ran his thumb over the jutting bone of her wrist. “It was an interesting experiment. I wouldn’t be against more of them.”

The slow smile she gave him was worth the struggle to prove his dominion over death.

\--

Marissa swung her legs out of bed to go find her husband. She had been alternating between grooming Starscream’s rather impossible, spoiled cat and reading (the cat protested every time she took her attention off its’ nutmeg-brown coat to read), but normally the allure of grooming Buster to unconsciousness was enough to get Thundercracker to come to bed. Not tonight.

She stretched as she went into the study. The lights were starting to go low in their oil, but Thundercracker had summoned light to keep reading. She shook her head. Normally, that was a sign for him to put down his work, but with Starscream gone, he felt like he had to do everything and then some.

She made sure he heard her feet on the bare stone floor, and she touched his shoulder before wrapping her arms around him. “Come to bed,” she murmured. “Buster’s waiting.”

“I’m trying to make sense of this,” he said. He was checking sheaves of letters. “Starscream’s said that he’s talked to the Mistress of Flame about the marriage proposal, and he thinks she’s going to agree. Eukaris, Navitas, and Carcer would all support the marriage, but I can’t get any reliable reports about Windblade’s behavior from them except that she was an exemplary diplomat and that she accomplished what they asked of her. There are rumors that she was close to Override and Moonracer, and some of those rumors claim she helped Moonracer become pregnant. She’s due in two months, by the way. I’ve already sent our gift to her. In Carcer…” he shook his head. “There’s enough gossip to know that _something_ happened between their Liege General and Windblade, but no one is actually willing to say what it was. On the other hand,” he reached out for a different packet of papers, “in Caminus, it’s common gossip that the Princess is a slut.” He made a face. “All I want to know is if her marriage to Starscream will help or hinder Cybertron’s reputation!”

“Worry about it tomorrow,” Marissa urged. “And compare it to what _you_ know of her. You met her, right?”

“Yes,” he said glumly, “while you were on your way here. She seemed like a mouse.”

Marissa’s lip curled at the thought. She despised ladies who hid everything they felt so that they could be palatable.

“ _Seemed_ like,” Thundercracker said more pointedly. “Personally, I think she’s just shy.” He leaned back against his chair and sighed. “Otherwise, she would have rolled over and let Starscream do what he wants, and that bores him.” When Marissa started to massage his temples, he closed his eyes. “Oh, love.”

“Come to bed,” Marissa said. “You can argue with intelligence later.”

“If you insist,” Thundercracker said.

She let go of him and went back to the bed. Mau had already bounded off the bed for the small nest he had created for himself from one of Starscream’s blankets, but Buster was curled up at the foot of their shared bed. She righted herself and stood up as Thundercracker neared, and Thundercracker gifted her with a scratch behind the ears.

There was a knock at the door, and Thundercracker and Marissa shared a look. Marissa grabbed her small crossbow as Thundercracker silently unsheathed his sword. Thundercracker approached the door and yanked it open quickly, to startle any potential attackers outside the door.

It was one of the guards who staffed the top wall. “We got a message,” he gasped out. “It’s got spells on it.”

Thundercracker took the note, which sparked in his hand. Lightning never bothered him, but it would startle anyone else. Marissa eyed the note and went to get his kit. He put down the note on the nearest flat surface, and Buster growled low in her throat at it. “Easy, Buster,” he scolded as he explored the spells on the envelope. “What will it take to undo it?” Marissa inquired.

“It needs to have the right powder striking the very center of the seal. I know how to do that.” He opened his kit and found the basic spell-undoing powder. He poured a small amount onto the table, and he whisked a finger in it. A small bit of air turned with his finger and turned into a tiny cyclone. He urged the cyclone to narrow at the base and widen at the top, and once the cyclone was as thin as the top of a pin, he moved it over to the seal. It struck the center of the seal, and the protective magics imploded as the paper opened. He flattened the cyclone until the powder was a thin layer hovering over the paper, and then he pulled the air away. The powder fell onto the paper, and the message appeared.

“That’s an interesting trick,” Marissa said over his shoulder. “That it takes spell-undoing powder to give the message.”

“It was an intelligence method for communications during the war,” Thundercracker said. “Soundwave taught me.”

They both leaned over the message, and they both froze at the same time. The message was short, but it was nowhere near simple.

_T,  
AB on the move._

They looked at each other, and Thundercracker swallowed. “Well,” he said in a voice that shook, “I guess that the war has restarted again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the interaction with the snow leopard is directly based on _Born in China_. It's a good documentary, but spoilers for animal death. I saw it in theaters with my family and I was so upset that I cried for literally 45 minutes after. I decided to fix it here.
> 
> The ideas that I had for Windblade's fire-dancing came from these posts: [1](https://inkfic.tumblr.com/post/164747527145/unidentifiedspoon-so-these-sketches-of-ballet), [2](https://inkfic.tumblr.com/post/164760208948/unidentifiedspoon-you-can-100-blame-jess-for), and [3](https://inkfic.tumblr.com/post/164785261719/unidentifiedspoon-old-rose-from-titanic-voice). All of the links are up on my writing [Tumblr](https://inkfic.tumblr.com).
> 
> Again, for our challenge, here are the diseases again:  
> Lung sickness (this is a complication of a respiratory infection)  
> Lung fever (this disease was very fashionable in the 19th century; also one of the oldest diseases in human history)  
> Rice water fever (the name is a clue)  
> Red pox (this disease changed the course of history several times)  
> Strangler (hint: this starred as an antagonist in a children's movie)  
> Rot (particularly known in the American Civil War)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a winner! Zatnick identified 5 out of 6, with borgi, ladygillian, and reset22 as runner-ups. Zatnick, please message me at my [Writing Tumblr](https://inkfic.tumblr.com), and I will give you your glimpse into the ~future. However! I am offering runner-up prizes of DVD commentary to borgi, ladygillian, and reset22. Pick a scene (500-1000 words), and message it to me, and I will explain my thought process and writing decisions for that scene. Those will be posted on my writing tumblr.
> 
> The actual answers and my commentary will be at the bottom of this chapter. I have a tendency to ramble (on my personal Tumblr, I wrote an answer to a friend about why the plague scene in _Beauty and the Beast 2017_ pissed me off), so I'd rather have it on the bottom of this chapter instead of here.
> 
> This chapter is super metaphysical. This one and Ch. 17 are both incredibly metaphysical, so fair warning. I tried to keep it in the style of Diana Wynne Jones instead of JRR Tolkien, but if you have any questions (and the answers don't involve spoilers), I'll be happy to answer them on my Tumblr.

**CHAPTER TWELVE: SISTERS**

_Late December, 1036 AP_

Starscream whistled to himself as he headed toward the library. He was due to meet Windblade there for a strategy session about plants and such--she had implied that she had a surprise for him--and he was feeling all right. Thundercracker was managing Iacon, although what with the bitter cold of winter beginning to ‘officially’ settle in, no one was moving much, and he finally had enough braziers and comforters on his bed to feel mostly warm.

He was getting ready to turn the corner into the corridor that led directly to the library when Lightbright appeared from the other hall and grabbed his arm. “My lord,” she said, “might we have a word? I’m so grateful you agree.”

Starscream raised both eyebrows as she led him back the way he had come. “My lady princess, what can I do for you?”

“You can answer a few questions, just a few, I promise,” Lightbright said. She directed him into a closed room, which turned out to be a conference room. Afterburner was there, but the Mistress of Flame was not. “It won’t take long.”

Afterburner rose from his seat at the small round table. “My lord.”

Starscream nodded to him as Lightbright closed the door. “What can I do for you, Lord Afterburner?”

“I am pulling together a staff for Princess Windblade. I want to be sure that I can place people with her and that you will not dismiss them.”

Starscream leaned against the wall. “Is that a genuine concern?”

“It is not unusual, if the liege lord wishes to punish their foreign spouse.” Afterburner’s brown eyes were steady, and Starscream considered his question with more seriousness.

“What positions did you have in mind?” he asked finally. “I understand the importance of the princess having her own people with her, but she will need Cybertronian members of staff also.”

“Her tailor and valet, her secretary, and her captain of the guard.”

Starscream turned it over in his mind. “That is acceptable,” he conceded. “Provided that her captain recruits Cybertronians for the Princess’ protection as well.”

“Reasonable,” Afterburner replied.

“And her secretary must be fluent in Cybertronian,” Starscream warned. “I don’t want her missives coming out with bad grammar and poor vocabulary.”

“Done,” Afterburner said.

Starscream looked at Lightbright. “Is there anything else?”

“There is. Afterburner, can you give us the room?”

Afterburner rose and left without any comment. Starscream turned to face the princess, carefully crafting his face to be as neutral as possible.

He was _not_ expecting to be slapped.

“What the hell?!” he said as he cupped his cheek. It smarted, and it was only his awareness that turning his magic on a princess of Caminus would spark an international incident of ridiculous proportions that kept him from killing her.

“She _doesn’t know_ ,” Lightbright spat. “How could you not tell her?!”

Ah. “Because I wouldn’t want to dishonor either her or me,” he snapped. “What would happen if I _had_ proposed and then your mother shot it down? I want to court her on my own terms.”

Lightbright stared him down, but he detected a change in her manner. “You want to court her?”

What else could he say? “Marriages made for political necessity are rarely happy. If we are going to have children, I would have her--content with my presence.”

Lightbright smiled. “I see.”

He eyed her. “I don’t care for that smile.”

“You’ll just have to live with it,” she said cheerfully. “Go on, then.”

“Have I answered all of your questions?”

“You’ll have to wait for the last of them.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re reminding me why I find siblings insufferable.”

“That would offend me if I didn’t know you had siblings. Too bad.” She reached out and patted his cheek. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but Windblade likes her lovers clean-shaven. She won’t tell me why,” Lightbright mused, “but I can guess.”

Starscream, thankfully, was nigh impossible to embarrass. That was what growing up with Skywarp did to you. “I am leaving now.”

“Have fun,” Lightbright was merry, and far bubblier than she had any right to be. Starscream escaped her presence to find someone easier to be around.

\--

Windblade whistled to light the candles in the stone-lined courtyard. It was still early, early enough for fog to curl around the pillars bordering the courtyard of the Temple. The damp chill clung to Windblade’s light wraparound coat and thin cotton trousers, but she would warm up in a moment. Her slippers made no sound on the courtyard stones as she circled it, creating a circle of protection. It would keep her magic from slipping out or fire catching on any of the non-stone accoutrements to the courtyard.

She stretched out one leg and bent at the waist until she could wrap her hands around the ankle. She held the pose for fifteen seconds before repeating the stretch with the other one. She lifted her arms toward the sky and turned so that her back stretched too. She performed a few more stretches, and once she felt limber, she brought up her left leg to her waist and pointed her foot to make as close to a perfect line as possible. Once everything was straight, she pushed fire through her veins until from the point of her foot, flame spouted. She turned on her ball of her resting foot until the fire followed her in an arch. She turned six or seven times, until her knee protested at the tension of her muscles. She borrowed some of the heat of her flame and allowed it to seep into the muscles around her knee, and she brought her foot down to the stone. Then it was time for the other leg.

Then she started a series of dance exercises she had learned in Eukaris--lunging jumps, twists in mid-air, even small flips, all accentuated with flame to help exercise both her muscles and her control. Sweat beaded her forehead but she was glad to see that she wasn’t as out of practice as she could’ve been. Her limbs didn’t tremble at all.

She stopped to drink some tea, and as she did so, she saw Lightbright waving to her from the other side of the circle’s barrier. She pulled back her magic, and Lightbright stepped over the line. “Now that you’re all stretched out, do you want to try some _real_ fun?”

Windblade grinned. “A game of catch?”

“Ex- _act_ -ly.”

“Only if you think you could keep up,” Windblade summoned a handful of flame. She passed it from hand to hand with a wicked smile. Only around Lightbright did she feel so comfortable and fully able to embrace her competitiveness. “You have no calluses anymore.”

“Just because you don’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there,” Lightbright promised. “Don’t go easy on me.”

“If you insist.” They always started with one fireball and worked their way up to others. Windblade lobbed it at her, and Lightbright caught it, only to twist and throw it back. The torque of her throw made the fire hotter, but Windblade was still comfortable with it.

They got comfortable, and then Lightbright said, “Are you sure you want to be in Cybertron?”

Windblade shrugged as she twirled on the ball of one foot twice to get the necessary speed before she directed the fire in a pointed flare toward her sister. “It’s as good a place as any. Once we get the soil up to scratch, it will be a delight to work with green and growing things. And if Thunderblast can finally figure out how to brew red raspberry tea, I’d rather not be around when she’s carrying.”

“I’d rather you be in a place you love, rather than someplace you are in simply to avoid being elsewhere.” Lightbright shook her head as she formed the flame between her hands into a large bird.

“I could come to love it, I think,” Windblade allowed the bird to land on her arm before she threw it up into the air and turned it into one of the dancing, flipping animals that lived in the sea. “I love Caminus,” she said, “but it doesn’t love me. Not anymore. Carcer--it tainted me too much.”

“It did _not_ ,” Lightbright told her, as vehement as she had ever been. “Carcer wasn’t your fault. It was a lesson.”

“Yes, but what did I learn?” Windblade turned Lightbright’s dragons into a flurry of butterflies. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be upsetting.”

“I think sometimes you carry around all this sadness and you never feel safe expressing it,” Lightbright said. “So it just hovers there.” She let one of Windblade’s butterflies alight on her finger. “You never really talked about your heartbreak.”

“You were too young to fully understand at the time,” Windblade deflected.

“I’m old enough now,” Lightbright said.

Windblade hesitated, which was a mistake when she dealt with fire. The butterflies melted into a fiery blob, but Lightbright took it over and created a gorgeous fire-bird, like the one that crested their flags. The fire-bird swooped around their heads. “This isn’t the right place or time,” she said finally.

“I’ll show up in your rooms with some food and a bottle of wine after the New Year celebration, how does that sound?” Lightbright beamed.

Windblade smiled, to put her sister at ease. She could always find ways to put it off later. “It sounds fine.”

Lightbright dispersed the flame. “Don’t think you can persuade me otherwise,” she said as she started to take the shield down. “We’re talking about it.”

“Mm,” Windblade said.

As the shield came down, Windblade saw that they had gained an audience. Most of them were younger novices who had probably never seen Lightbright work with flame before, but Starscream was among their number. That made her suspicious, and she turned back to Lightbright, who gave her a happy smirk. ‘I’m getting you back,’ she mouthed to her sister.

Lightbright shrugged.

Windblade took a water cup from one of the novices and gulped it down. She was running hot, and if she stepped onto snow, it would melt instantly. She stayed in the paved courtyard. Lightbright glanced at their crowd. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

The novices paled as one and fled. “You always know how to clear the room,” Windblade commented quietly.

“Someone has to,” Lightbright tossed her head. “Lord Starscream, what a surprise!”

Starscream approached them. “That was rather impressive,” he remarked. “How long did it take for you two to learn all that?”

“Windblade has the advantage of more time spent,” Lightbright said with a cheeky smile. “But she wasn’t given the priestess special.”

“Do I want to know?” Starscream inquired.

Windblade ignored them both as she wiped her face and neck of any dried salt. She ran too hot to sweat, but the dried salt made her itch.

“She was only taught to control her power. She did the work to master it herself. Me, I’m supposed to rise in the hierarchy, so I was taught how to use it as well as control.” Lightbright nodded to Windblade. “When she wants something, she works to get it. I’d remember that.” She patted Starscream on the shoulder.

“Er. Thank you?”

“Anytime,” Lightbright chirped. She looked at Starscream, shorter than him but almost as fierce. “Now you know that she plays with fire like a child plays with wooden blocks.”

“Lightbright,” Windblade snapped.

“Message received,” Starscream held up his hands. “Is that all?”

“For the moment,” Lightbright said. She turned to Windblade. “Are you ready to go inside?”

“I’ll surely bring the place down around our ears if we do,” Windblade shook her head. “My control isn’t as perfect as I would like.”

Starscream tilted his head. “What do you mean by that?”

“Our body temperature elevates when we work with flame,” Lightbright said as she took some of her own water and poured it over her head. It steamed slightly, but Lightbright’s control was better than Windblade’s. “We call it running hot.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Starscream said flatly. “The body can’t be so hot that it sets other things on fire.”

Windblade had run through too many emotions not to give into _some_ of them. Frustration racing along her veins, she moved until she was in front of Starscream. He wore a coat and hat, but no gloves. That suited her fine. She reached down and grabbed one of them with both of hers, and his eyes widened when he felt the heat pouring from her skin. For her part, she frowned when she felt how cold his body temperature was. And he was one to criticize ridiculous body temperatures?!

She concentrated. Normally she had to wait until her body cooled on its own, but if she could _put_ her heat somewhere...Slowly, so as not to burn him, she fed her heat along the top of his skin, not his veins like she had done before. By running it along his skin, under his layers, the layers would seal and insulate the heat to keep him from getting cold while he wore them.

He laid his free hand over their joined ones, and she looked up at him. “What?” she asked defensively. “You hate the cold.”

He kissed her. It was awkward, with their hands crushed between them, but she wasn’t done bleeding off some of her excess heat--and that sounded really bad, she wasn’t interested in doing _that_ at the moment, but his lips were surprisingly soft, and she hadn’t fully realized just how much she wanted him to kiss her until he did.

He pulled away from her. “I don’t know what to do with you,” he rasped.

She blinked at him. “I don’t understand.”

He kissed her forehead. “You will.” With that illuminating statement, he turned and left her, and Windblade turned back to Lightbright, utterly befuddled.

Lightbright whistled, two notes. Windblade gave her a rude hand gesture in response.

\--

Prowl’s fingers tapped the small desk in the command tent as Jazz slunk in, snow in his locs and his face chapped from the wind. Prime was pacing behind him, and Prowl wished he would stop. He already had a headache, and the thunderous vibrations from behind him was only making it worse. Jazz yanked off his gloves and held his hands to the brazier. His visor was coated in the slightest bit of frost, which probably hurt like hell.

“Well?” Prowl demanded. His headache robbed any bit of polite composure he may have had, and Jazz didn’t look like he had good news. Prowl had no interest is being generous to an underling that failed.

“The whole area’s salted with traps,” Jazz said, his voice thin to the point of breaking. No doubt he’d gotten sick or something. Prowl refused to feel guilt. Jazz was finally obeying his obligations, as he should have been doing all along. “Good ones. Most of them are weather traps--Thundercracker’s work--but others are drains or oubliettes. Even without the traps, the storms that are blowing through the mountains into the plains are nasty and unmoving. There’s no way we’re going to make it through the passes before spring.”

“Whose oubliettes?” Prowl said.

Jazz shrugged. “Didn’t get close enough to tell, but I can guess. We all know who’s good at putting people away.”

“You should have murdered Soundwave long ago,” Prowl retorted.

Jazz bristled as he glanced at Prime, who was still pacing. “Because _you_ did such a good job of finding a plan that worked.”

“If you had used your magic like you _claimed_ you could, you could have changed the odds--!”

“I will _not_ be lectured about how to use my magic by a smug son of a--.”

“ _Enough_ ,” Prime bellowed, and they both shut up. Prowl felt a hard twist of nostalgia; how many times had Optimus broken up their arguments? How many times had he needed to put them in time-out before they could work together? “You are acting like children. Jazz. Can you scout a way out of the traps?”

It was almost reasonable. Prowl immediately suspected it.

“No,” Jazz sighed. “Not easy, not with the entire cargo train. The storm traps look like they’re designed to stay in one place, and we all know the danger of traveling when snow-blind.”

Prime slammed a hand down on Prowl’s desk, and _there_ was the emotional response Prowl had been waiting for. “That is not good enough!”

Jazz didn’t flinch, but Prowl knew a studied response when he saw one. “I did my job,” Jazz said evenly. “I scouted, I check for traps, I returned to report. It isn’t my fault that you don’t like what I discovered.”

Prime’s hand came back to slap Jazz for his insubordination, but Prowl shot to his feet. “Prime!”

Prime stopped. He looked between the two of them before he stalked out of the tent, and Jazz waited until his steps were out of earshot before he said, “What fresh steaming pile of shit have you gotten us into?”

“This is the best time to attack Iacon,” Prowl snapped, nettled. “Starscream is gone.”

“Winter is _never_ a good time to attack _anything_. You know that--or you used to. Did you get so caught in needing to win that you forgot damn basic logistics?” Jazz pulled his gloves back on. “I’m gonna go get warm. Just because you don’t like what I had to say doesn’t mean I’m not right.” He left, and Prowl was left alone.

Just as he liked it, even if Jazz’s words stuck in his craw. Jazz didn’t know what Prowl knew. It was only a matter of time before the Autobots would lose Iacon forever, and they had to act. Whatever the cost.

\--

Starscream walked into the main hall of the Palace of Flame and stopped to the view of the entire hall swathed in varying bolts of cloth. Silk and satin of every color fought for his attention, and he scanned over the room. “Hello?”

“Oh, my lord,” some cloth bulged, and Thunderblast emerged from a particularly vibrant violet. “Hello.”

Starscream gestured to the explosion of fabric. “What is all this?”

“After the New Year, to celebrate the Feast of the Firelight, the merchants host a bazaar for a full day and night. _But_ due to royal privilege, we get first pick before the bazaar. As no one else can spare the time, I pick out the fabric and determine the wardrobes of everyone who works in this household for the coming year.”

“It doesn’t excite you?” Starscream ran a hand down some burgundy silk and tested the weave between his fingers. The quality was exquisite, even if the feel of the silk was different than what he was used to. He wondered if the climate had something to do with it. “That is a tremendously important role.”

“I wouldn’t mind it so much if I was able to do other things too.” She nodded to the burgundy silk. “Do you favor it?”

“Vos was famed for its silk, once,” he said absently. “I was never taught to weave or spin or anything like that, but part of my education was being able to tell the quality of a bolt of silk at a glance.”

“I didn’t know that.” Thunderblast looked over the cavernous room. “My father was the governor of one of the southern provinces. Under his rule, the southern provinces became incredibly profitable and transparent in their finances. He’s a banker to merchants, and he taught me his trade.”

“How does a banker become a governor?”

Thunderblast’s mouth twisted. “Governors are deliberately chosen by the Mistress of Flame who are not nobles. They serve for ten years at a time, but the periods can be extended by the Mistress of Flame’s will. It probably goes without saying that my father’s second term was cut short by Hot Shot’s marriage to me.”

“You must be tired of being the one everyone blames.”

“If I didn’t love Hot Shot so much, perhaps I would be.” Thunderblast studied the burgundy silk in front of him, her neck reddening. “I know he’s not perfect, but he’s perfect for me. As long as I have him, everyone else’s judgement can be smoke for what I care.”

“Is that really true?” he asked quietly.

“I want it to be,” she admitted, just as quietly. She looked at him sidelong. “What is this supposed to be, the two outsiders bonding or something?”

“So you know.”

“Hot Shot told me after you arrived. I didn’t believe him at first, because I think Windblade is devoted to her single state, but then I saw how she acts around you,” Thunderblast shrugged. “The Mistress of Flame asked me to step in there.”

“So her _mother_ is the reason for the beauty treatments,” Starscream said, entertained. “Oh, that’s rich.”

“I don’t often get to tease Windblade,” Thunderblast confided. “It was fun.”

“Do you hate her the way Hot Shot does?”

“No,” Thunderblast said after she paused for thought. “Hot Shot hates her because she’s always going to be better than him--more compassionate, smarter, more, just, _more_ \--but I find her to be...arrogant, in the way that gifted witches are. Even before Hot Shot and I married, she would never had had to deal with _this_ nonsense.” One nod encompassed the whole room.

“She saved Hot Shot’s life,” Starscream said casually. “When he was born.”

Thunderblast raised her eyebrows. “What?”

“Apparently, he died in the womb, and Windblade brought him back. Impressive, isn’t it?”

“She couldn’t have been more than 7,” Thunderblast murmured. “No, I--didn’t know that. He doesn’t either, I think.”

“That’s what I was told.” Starscream wandered a little deeper into the room, and Thunderblast followed. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this--trying to help her in a sideways way. Maybe Windblade’s altruism had rubbed off on him.

He snorted. Or maybe it was about tweaking the Mistress of Flame’s _perfect_ family.

“You said your father was a banker. He trained you?”

“In all of it,” Thunderblast said as he examined a navy satin. Not that he cared, _Primus_ , but it would suit Thundercracker. As lining for some kind of suit or coat, maybe. “Double-entry bookkeeping, tracking revenue, the equations for taxes and interest, everything. Hot Shot sometimes asks my opinion, but only when the Mistress of Flame isn’t going to be checking behind him.”

“Hm.” There might be something he could do there--tax reform has been dominating their dinners for the past few weeks. Hot Shot usually checked out of the conversation, but Starscream would be more than happy to show up all of them by asking Thunderblast her opinion, which he had no doubt she possessed.

If he was truly ‘on Windblade’s side,’ maybe he shouldn’t bother, but he couldn’t help but relish the future look on the Mistress of Flame’s face when she realized her son had actually married someone _smart_.

“Windblade would never tell anyone, but she prefers blues to reds,” Thunderblast commented. “It’s just that red and blank are the colors of our flag, and she’s expected to represent us. It’s why she wears more blue at home.”

“She looks very good in red,” Starscream said without thinking. It was true--it set off the gold in her complexion the way other colors wouldn’t. “And you of course look excellent in purple.”

“I’ve always loved purple, but it is expensive,” Thunderblast told him. “The first time I had an entire gown of it, I was getting married.” She smiled. “Hot Shot has ensured I can wear purple whenever I want to.”

He didn’t want to hear it, not really, but the way that Thunderblast and Hot Shot fit _almost_ reminded him of Skyfire. It wasn’t a perfect comparison--Skyfire didn’t like sex _or_ Starscream spending money on him--but Starscream could see it.

They chatted about inane things--the strength of a dye, the particular weaving pattern to make the color changes in the weave apparent when the cloth moved—but it was one of the first conversations that he had had in Caminus that was simple. Thunderblast was likeable when she wasn’t trying to cut Windblade with her words, and he felt like she was the only one that he knew where he stood with her. Everyone else had too many goals to be simple.

She did stop him cold when she asked, casually, “So have you two slept together yet? From what Hot Shot says, that’s pretty much a guarantee of her clinging to you.”

“And how would Hot Shot know that?” It was rude to answer a question with a question, but given the general lack of Windblade’s presence as they went through the room, he figured that was her answer.

Thunderblast stretched. “Oh, it’s some family gossip from a few years ago, about the marriage proposal from Carcer.”

“I enjoy gossip,” he said, to hide how his ears were roaring. Marriage proposal from _Carcer?_ Then why did Carcer feel the need to tell him that it supported his bid for the marriage? But that was before he even had the thought...or was that the moment he started thinking about it?

Did Carcer _play him?_

Thunderblast gave him an arch look and lowered her voice. “I don’t know very much, because _Hot Shot_ doesn’t know very much. What I do know is this: Windblade went to Carcer to sign the first peace agreement in ages about, oh, five, six years ago. It was supposed to be a two week trip, but there was an assassination attempt and then in an effort to investigate and keep her safe, somehow she got snowed in. The passes between Carcer and Caminus close for around six months of the year,” Thunderblast clarified when Starscream looked confused. “So right after the passes open again, there’s a letter asking for an adjustment to the treaty--for marriage to Windblade to seal it, that kind of thing. They go back and forth for _months_ , but finally the Mistress of Flame says no, and Windblade returns home, absolutely heartbroken. She doesn’t talk to anyone about it. Believe me, I’ve bribed her maids.”

“How long was she in Carcer?” Starscream asked when he could find his voice again.

“About nine months. It made the Mistress of Flame upset, I heard, because she felt that Windblade’s letters home were being censored.” Thunderblast reached for a midnight blue silk and ran it through her fingers. “Windblade’s never been interested in marriage since.” Her eyes turned sharp as she looked at him. “Until you.”

“Do I sense a threat?” he inquired. “I didn’t think you cared.”

“I don’t,” Thunderblast shrugged. “No, really, I don’t. But you _are_ the best option, for Hot Shot’s sake. He’s never going to be the ruler I _know_ he could be as long as he feels like he lives in her shadow. Marry her, make her happy, throw her in a tower and lose the key, I don’t care. But for Hot Shot’s sake, she needs to be gone.”

“So that’s your stake in it.”

“I love my husband,” Thunderblast told him. She peered at him. “You didn’t know?”

“The delegate from Carcer implied a great deal,” he said stiffly. “You’ve merely colored it in.”

It _pissed him off_. If Carcer wanted him to marry Windblade, there had to be a reason for it. Should he actually marry her then? If it suited a plan of Carcer’s? But how would it suit? He would need to think about that further.

Thunderblast turned back to her cloth. “Do you want any of this? Just let me know, and I’ll ensure it gets to your rooms.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Starscream said.

“Oh please,” she said with a quick, sarcastic smile. “I do this for everyone in the family, because they can’t be bothered. What’s one more?”

He looked around and pointed to the original burgundy silk. “I believe I should like that for a robe for the New Year.”

“I’ll send it and the tailor up to your rooms,” Thunderblast said. “Just you leave it to me.”

“I don’t think I have much of a choice,” he said.

Thunderblast grinned. “Just so.”

\--

The Long Night arrived, and the court went entirely somber. Windblade pulled herself in tighter but somehow managed not to disappear, Lightbright returned to the Temple for the last of the New Year rehearsals, and Starscream stewed.

Windblade wasn’t sure what had happened, but she knew Starscream was stewing.

No matter what happened, the preparation chamber was always cold. She was strictly forbidden to use magic, otherwise she would have warmed herself and Starscream on the other side of the curtain. To be prepared to enter into the presence of Solus, one had to strip, be ritually bathed and then anointed. After the symbol of the forge was drawn on the forehead in a stinging oil--it was supposed to open the eyes of perception and magic--then one pulled on an undyed cotton robe and were prayed over, and then _finally_ the doors to the Sacred Chamber were opened.

The ritual bath was icy, even at the height of summer. Windblade got through it the best she could.

She suffered through the anointing, the rough fabric of the robe, and the prayers, but her nervous anxiety made her fingers twitch. What if Solus refused to give her a solution? Worse, what if Solus refused to speak at all?

The sight of Starscream, sulky and glowing with the oil mark on his forehead, lifted her spirits marginally. Her hair was braided and tied--if it had been just her, she would have let her hair loose, but with Starscream, it wasn’t appropriate for her hair to be loose. Solus would understand.

“From this moment,” the Mother Superior intoned, “you cannot speak. You cannot cry out. Until the ritual is complete, no sound must escape your lips. Do you understand?”

They both nodded. “The circle has been prepared,” the Mother Superior continued as she stepped aside to show them. “Once the circle is sealed, we will exit the room and not re-enter until the ritual is complete. Our re-entry is the sign that it is acceptable for you two to speak again. Do you understand?”

Again, they nodded. The phrases were part of the ritual; Windblade had insisted that Starscream be briefed as part of his pre-ritual preparations.

“The circle will be complete when the candles light,” the Mother Superior went on. “The ritual will end when the candles go out. The size and width of the candles have no impact on when the candles will burn out. They will burn out when Solus decides, not before. Do you understand?”

For the third time, they nodded, and the Mother Superior gave them a small smile. “Then if you understand, step into the circle.”

The circle was directly in front of the statue of Solus in the Sacred Chamber. The Lamp of Solus burned in Solus’ lap, and it flickered as Windblade stepped over the deep-wrought circle. She hoped it was in welcome. The candles were set at equidistant points along the circle to highlight the four sacred directions. The statue of Solus was naturally to the south, the direction of fire, but the rest of the directions had something to ally them to their corresponding elements. North, the direction of air and cold, had an ice crystal, maintained by magic. East, the direction of earth and dry, had a handful of rich black soil, and West, the direction of water and damp, had a small bowl of water.

Once Starscream stepped into the circle, he faced the north and Windblade faced the south, their backs touching. The oil in the deep rivets of the circle lit and ran under the candles, and the wicks lit instantly. Windblade felt the rise of the circle until it encapsulated the two of them in a bubble, and all sound and light from everything except the fire in front of them died away. Starscream’s hands found hers, and she squeezed them. She opened her mouth to say _This is normal,_ but she remembered herself just in time.

Then the oil on their foreheads heated, and Windblade’s knees buckled at the influx of magic in their circle. Starscream fell with her, and her mind lit up with visions.

_\--Fire heat water damp air_ **_cold_ ** _earth dry lifeless no life she was choking she_ **_was choking_ ** _\--_

She had a sensation of a hand covering her face, shielding her from the heat that stole her breath, and she blinked to see Solus standing with her in the stars. Starscream was nowhere to be seen, and Solus had on all of her armor except her helm. **My most faithful servant** , Solus told her.

Windblade struggled to drag words from her parched throat. Solus shook her head. **There is no need to deny it,** the Prime of Life said. **I would entrust no one else with my own magic.** She tilted her head. **You are my heir. I knew this time would come.**

_What time?_ Windblade desperately wanted to ask, but she was forbidden to speak. She didn’t need to; in the swirling galaxies of Solus’ eyes, she saw amused discernment. **That I am not allowed to speak of,** Solus said while cupping Windblade’s cheek. Her hand was cool, with the pinpricks Windblade always associated with life magic. It was almost as though she could feel stars being born from Solus’ very skin. **You must meet this challenge for yourself, but there are answers to be found.**

_Where?!_

Solus smiled. **Where life began.**

******

Starscream struggled to catch his breath. Cold slunk into his skin and into his lungs, and he was drowning in it. Ice crystals were forming in his joints and he could hear them crackling as he tried to move--

A presence like thunder warmed his body, starting from his blood and out to his skin. He rubbed his eyes and pretended not to hear how his joints hissed with the movement, but his eyes were dazzled with gold-and-silver, like sunlight on the edge of a sword.

**You have so many open wounds, I am surprised you can count them,** the presence said. The voice made his knees quake, but he fought to stay upright. He had been snarled at by Megatron, who by the end was too deep into his murderous rage to ever see the light again. No Prime--it _had_ to be a Prime--could make him beg.

**But you do count them** , the Prime continued, almost sadly. **It keeps your mannerisms fresh because you are terrified to die.**

Starscream opened his mouth to contest that, but his tongue wouldn’t work for the first time in his life.

**Imagine what you would be like without them.** There was a sensation of something tearing, and Starscream thought he _screamed_.

Visions of everyone he had ever loved passed in front of his eyes like lightning--his parents, dead too soon of a plague no one understood, Skywarp, too sarcastic for his own good, even Thundercracker, whose grief had settled into the lines of his face. The grief Starscream thought he had already gone through struck him like a crossbow quarrel, and then he _was_ shouting and pleading. Apologies, for all of them to come back, to be safe in the space he had made, and the pain from the grief and everything he missed made him fall to his knees.

_Please_ , he might have gasped. _Please_.

There was a hand being proffered, and the small, innocent part of Starscream that he thought had died with the first salvo of the war made him reach out and take the offered hand. He was lifted to his feet and beheld such a warrior that his eyes couldn’t take them all in. It was definitely a Prime, and it was Windblade’s Prime--Solus.

His heart, newly restored and tender, squeezed and turned over at the thought of Windblade.

**I cannot remove your curse entirely** , Solus said sadly. **That is a choice you must make for yourself, but I can remind you of what you gave up to keep it.**

He didn’t choose the curse, damnit! It was forced on him!

**Perhaps,** Solus allowed, **but there is no such thing as an unbreakable curse. I wish there was. You know how to break your curse, but you must allow yourself _to_ break it, and that--my dear, loved one, that is something you could never allow yourself. You like being cold and distant. You think it saves you from further hurt.**

Emotions only made things hurt more. The curse kept him safe.

**During the war, had you had it, perhaps. But the war is over.**

The war was _never_ over. Solus had been murdered by the one who loved her most. You would think she would know that better than anyone.

A shadow crossed over Solus’ face. **I was not murdered,** she said pointedly. **But the one who harmed me was the one who loved me most. Do you fear hurting the ones you love the most?**

That was too ridiculous a question to even contemplate. They had lived through worse than him.

Solus shook her head. **You were one to shape your own destiny,** her face became veiled with sadness, **and now you obey the whims that someone else has put upon you.**

He stiffened. Who was _she_ to question how he chose to live his life?

**If only you could apply that same defiance to your own wounds.** She reached out and cupped his cheek, and visions of flame erupting from the top of mountains briefly swamped his vision. **I am not your enemy.**

That was questionable, in that moment of time. Finally, Solus let him go and clasped her hands in front of her. **Do you want a solution?**

His first instinct was to ask _for what_ , but then he remembered the point of why they were there, and the answer was _Obviously_.

**You must go back to the starting point. Only when you are at the beginning can you find the answers you seek.**

Did Primes _have_ to speak in riddles?

Solus threw her head back and laughed with delight. **No, but the twists your face goes through make it worth it.** She reached out for his shoulder. **And now I think it is time for you--**

**

Windblade blinked to find darkness waiting for her. No, not full darkness--the banked candlelight slowly stole across her vision, but it was so dark in comparison to the galaxies she had been in that she had mistaken it for pure darkness.

There was something _in_ this darkness, but it whirled away from her when she tried to narrow her gaze to it. Behind her, Starscream stirred too, and her latent disorientation disappeared in a flash of cold rage.

Wait. Her rage was never _cold._

She forced down the anger like she always did until it was smaller and more manageable, and then she turned to Starscream. He looked confused, the kind of confusion when there was too much stimuli to focus on. The rage thrummed in her veins at how useless it was, but she breathed out and forced a smile. “Are you all right?”

“We’re allowed to speak now?” The rage was subsiding, thank Solus, but it was being replaced by...almost taking stock.

She gestured to the circle. “The candles are out.”

“Ah.” He appraised her, and the foreign, _cold_ emotions vanished entirely. “You’ve been crying.”

She reached up to touch her cheeks and was relieved when she felt dried salt, not ash. “It happens. I get overwhelmed with Her Glory.” It was the easiest way to describe the full-body sensation of being aware of so much power that her veins and skin were not enough to hold it. It tended to overrun all of her psychic defenses until she nearly drowned with the awareness of life around her.

Solus was polite, though, and always rebuilt her defenses before Solus left her.

Starscream yawned. “That was a waste of magic.”

She stared at him. “How can you say that? I know where we need to go next.”

“She may have shared that information with _you_ , but with _me_ she only talked in riddles.”

She rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. “We can share notes. I’m rather good with riddles.”

“Excellent,” he grunted. “Why am I so damn _tired_?”

“Ritual aftereffects,” she said. “It takes a lot out of you.” She caught his yawn and hid it behind her hand. “The Mother Superior will have rooms prepared for us.”

Starscream peered at her, and she was abruptly impatient with the low lighting. With one fierce burst, the candles around the Sacred Chamber burst into flame, throwing Starscream’s face into sharper relief. They both blinked in the sudden brightness. “Rooms prepared?”

“We’ll be tended to as we convalesce,” she explained. “You may feel all right now, but when you try to stand up and walk, you’ll see what I mean.”

She was content to sit on the floor, but Starscream wasn’t inclined to believe her. She could understand his hesitation, but when he tried to stand, his knees gave out and he fell on his back. She huffed a laugh as he squawked unhappily, and she looked up at the ceiling.

The swirling _other_ in the darkness had vanished when she summoned flame to the candles, but it felt a little familiar.She racked her brains in an attempt to place her, but her thoughts wouldn’t come together and she sighed. She knew she was magically exhausted; it affected all other body processes until she got some rest.

“I thought the Mother Superior was supposed to come to us once we came out of the trance or whatever,” Starscream grumbled in front of her.

“She was--is.”

“Then where the hell is she?”

Windblade considered the question before she shrugged. Starscream rolled his eyes at her. “Yes, very helpful, _thank_ you.”

“I live to serve,” she chirped.

“If only,” he said, and she nudged him in the arm with her toes. It was all she could manage. Sitting upright was becoming too difficult, so she laid down next to him and closed her eyes to keep the room from spinning.

“Hey. Hey, Windblade.”

“Mm?” she didn’t bother to open her eyes. He was solid against her side, but he was cold. She had gotten used to him being cold, but he didn’t like to be cold, so she pushed some of her heat into him. When his skin against her arm wasn’t icy, she relaxed her magic. Sharing heat was so instinctual and took so little magic she was barely aware of the further drain of magical resources.

“What did you see?”

She cracked open an eyelid, resenting that he was demanding an answer from her when she just wanted to sleep. “Stars.”

“Huh.” Right before she drifted off, she heard him mutter, “Then why did I see a volcano…?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so many Thoughts about what life magic would fully entail, but I don't want those thoughts to derail the plot. 
> 
> There was actually a whole other way this scene could have gone, and tomorrow or the next day I'll post it on my Tumblr for the risk of spoilers. I liked the potential of the other scene, but it would have thrown off the rest of the story's plot, so I had to rework it. 
> 
> For those who were curious what the correct answers were:
> 
> Lung sickness--pneumonia. This is a common complication of any upper respiratory infection. Trivia for you: when the US was gearing up to enter WWI, the biggest concern the doctors had was pneumonia. It killed more than any weapon.
> 
> Lung fever--tuberculosis. This is, according the PBS documentary _The Forgotten Plague_ , one of the oldest diseases in the human record. It became very fashionable during the 19th century, about 20-50 years before they learned it passed through germs instead of through family lines. Let me be very clear: this is an absolutely horrible death. _Do not_ wish it for yourself. Tuberculosis is actually becoming a problem again, even in the US, because the bacteria that make up the infection are evolving to be drug-resistant. 
> 
> Rice water fever--cholera. I chose the name for this because "rice water" is actually a symptom of it. It's what happens when your bowels are entirely empty but still, um, convulsing, so it looks like you're shitting rice when it's actually the lining of your intestines. Cholera was actually one of the first diseases that we were able to really "solve", because of the heroes of public health. I recommend the story of the Broad Street Water Pump. If looking at some of these diseases makes you feel AAAAAAH (like I do), reading about some of the wins make me feel better.
> 
> Red pox--smallpox. Again, this disease and its vanquishing is one of humankind's wins. Public health officials across borders decided that through vaccines, they were going to stop this disease come hell or high water. They succeeded. It's the only disease we've ever been able to fully eradicate. Also, VACCINATE YOUR FUCKING KIDS.
> 
> Strangler--diphtheria. This nickname is mine, because of how diphtheria actually kills. The disease attacks the throat, and it (like TB) is a bacterial infection. The bacteria secretes a toxin that coats the throat and slowly suffocates the victim. It's why the cure is called "anti-toxin" instead of using antibiotics. The anti-toxin that doctors developed basically stopped the bacteria from secreting the toxin. The rest of the infection acts like a generic upper respiratory infection and once the toxin is halted, you live. Yay! This disease starred as the antagonist in _Balto_. The true story of the [serum run to Nome](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1925_serum_run_to_Nome) is a wild ride from start to finish. At some point, we should get a movie of the full story. DO IT, HOLLYWOOD. EVERYONE LIKES DOG STORIES.
> 
> Rot--gangrene. This was always an illness, but it ended up being a really bad thing in the US Civil War (which is, when allowing for full population comparisons, still the bloodiest war in US history), and ended up killing more than open warfare. 
> 
> The thing about being a medical history nerd is that you get pretty unflappable about some of the worst disease outbreaks/epidemics/pandemics but I still get skeeved out by trepanation and lobotomies. That is not an invitation to tell me about them. 
> 
> I love all the comments! Whenever I have bad days, your comments bolster me. Thank you!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few housekeeping things: Zatnick, your reward is waiting! Borgi, reset22, and ladygillian, all of you can message me at [my writing tumblr](inkwrites.tumblr.com) and choose any scene between 500-1000 words and I will happily write up a DVD commentary for you all.
> 
> Things happen!
> 
> Happy new year! May we all be happier and in better places this time next year than we are right now.

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TRUTH WAS AS A BLADE**

Lightbright swiveled her head between the Mother Superior and her mother, both of whom were locked in an epic battle for the ages. There would no prisoners, only fatalities.

“I want them in the palace,” Mother said evenly. “I know Windblade’s power. I know when it will be restored.”

“My priests are healer-trained to tend to magical and spiritual exhaustion,” the Mother Superior replied. “Princess Windblade has been trained so that her magic will not break out and attack anyone who comes near her when she is so vulnerable, but Lord Starscream is a war veteran and cannot be counted upon to have the same training. My priests know how to work around a power’s instinctive guards to keep themselves safe.”

“They will be safer in the palace.”

The Mother Superior swelled with indignation. “That is a _preposterous_ claim. How could you--?!”

“You saw what happened when their magic mixed,” Mother interrupted. “The palace has better safeguards and is in a less volatile place. All of Caminus will be safer if they are in the palace, especially considering that even in unconsciousness, they refuse to let go of each other!”

That was the strangest part, Lightbright thought. She wasn’t as perplexed as Mother and the Mother Superior by how easily Windblade and Starscream’s magic mixed. They complemented each other, magic-wise. What _was_ strange was that when the room cleared and the circle broke, Windblade and Starscream had been facing each other, and they were clenching each other’s hands. They had not begun the ritual that way, and Lightbright hadn’t seen them move.

The Mother Superior and her priests had tried to break them away from each other, but it didn’t work, not without breaking fingers, and the Mother Superior wouldn’t do that. They would wake up and be fine.

However, the longer they remained unconscious, the less likely it became that they would _ever_ wake up. The Mother Superior’s guess was that their hold on each other kept them in a feedback loop of some kind.

“How about this,” Lightbright broke in in an effort to keep the peace. “The Mother Superior’s priests tend them, but in the palace?” she looked to the Mother Superior. “Even in the viewing room, I felt the room shake when their power mixed. The Sacred Chamber amplifies everything, and the Temple is rooted in the deep fire of the mountain. The palace is rooted in granite. It will be safer.”

From the looks on both women’s faces, they were both in agreement for how _much_ they did not agree with her plan, but she knew that they would go with it after a moment’s consideration. It was the best compromise between safety and care. While they thought about it--and would no doubt argue about when and how long that care would last--Lightbright wandered out of the room and to the waiting chamber. Two cots had been hastily pushed together, and Windblade and Starscream rested on top of them.

They did not look--at peace, which was a change from how the Mother Superior typically looked as she recovered from ritual exhaustion. Windblade’s forehead kept creasing as her lips tightened, and Starscream scowled. They had a death grip on each other’s hands, and for a moment, Lightbright wanted to have mind magic instead of fire magic. She would have liked to know what they were dreaming about.

“They’ll be moved this afternoon,” Mother said over Lightbright’s shoulder. Lightbright started.

“That was quick.”

“We both agreed your plan was the best one. It will take some time to prepare a room, and then their moving will have to be discreet. There is a Longnight event this afternoon, so--.”

“So the only people who will know that these two haven’t woken up yet are the ones you want to know.” Lightbright nodded. “Mother, why haven’t they woken up yet?”

“I can only guess,” Mother warned as she leaned on the wall. She was dressed _like_ Mother, instead of the Mistress of Flame.

“That’s fine.”

Mother stared at the two of them. “Some magic goes together,” she said abruptly. “Like that wind witch you know.” Lightbright willed her face to remain neutral; Mother didn’t need to know all the details of hers’ and Sparkstalker’s relationship. “When there is truly complementary magic--when the presence of one accentuates the other--I suspect that their minds are complementary also.”

“What would be the difference between magic that goes together and truly complementary magic?”

“Healing magic and green magic,” Mother said, “tend to go together. Complementary magic is like life and death.” She nodded to Windblade and Starscream. “I suspect,” she hesitated, before she said, “I suspect that they are dream-sharing.”

Lightbright frowned. “I thought that could only happen after a marriage ceremony.”

“They melded their magic together in front of Solus and witnesses,” her mother said drolly. “Is that not a kind of marriage ceremony?”

“Don’t tell Windblade that.”

Mother snorted. “No, I shall not.” She shook her head. “Like I said, it is only a suspicion. They may wake up and have had coincidental nightmares that have nothing to do whatsoever with each other or the ritual.”

“So you think it’s nightmares too.” Lightbright stretched out her fingers.

“I have watched Windblade sleep far more than you have,” Mother’s voice was _very_ dry. “I know when her dreams are restless.”

“Mother, I--,” Lightbright revised her sentence in her head. “I’m afraid for her.”

“Why?” Mother tilted her head.

“There’s a chance Cybertron could become a warzone again,” Lightbright murmured, “and Starscream...is not a _good_ person.”

“No, he is not,” Mother agreed.

“Are you going to agree to the marriage?” Lightbright whispered.

Mother sighed. “I think I might.”

“But…”

“There is no such thing as a truly exemplary moral character in any of my fellow rulers,” Mother said. “So barring that, what I then look for is how it benefits Caminus and how it benefits Windblade. A stable Cybertron will be a good trading partner for Caminus, and Windblade may not be _happy_ but with the work it will take to make Cybertron stable, she will be busy and therefore content. And Lord Starscream...well, there are worse candidates.”

Like Elita-One? Lightbright longed to ask, but knew she could not. Mother would not take it well. “There are better ones, too,” she said.

“We can’t get everything we want,” Mother said. “All we can do is our best.”

Lightbright watched her leave and wished that was enough.

\--

Starscream woke up dazed. Every part of his body hurt, and he tried to remember what had happened to cause so much pain. Had he pissed off Megatron again…? No, Megatron would have left cuts and bruises, not the full-body ache he was fighting against. And it wasn’t a battle, either; he made sure never to expend all of his magic in a fight because you never knew who crept up behind you while you recovered. He made himself sit up, and he held his head between his hands as the ache sharpened more specifically into a throbbing migraine.

Even his hands hurt. What had he done?

With a mental eyeroll--the real one hurt too much--he remembered the steps to taking stock of his situation. First, he should note his surroundings.

The room he was in was barren, but surprisingly warm despite lack of brazier or fireplace. All that was in it was a bed, and he realized he had not been alone in the bed. There was a second’s confusion over just when he started sleeping with other people again, but then his bedmate rolled over and he relaxed when he saw Windblade’s tattoos. She was still fast asleep, her hair crumpled and a line of drool linking the corner of her mouth to her pillow.

Her presence reassured him, as did the presence of the thin cotton robe he still wore. The cold slunk in as he took mental steps back in an attempt to remember what had happened, and he pushed at the air ineffectively. He didn’t remember entering the room or sleeping on the bed--what was the last thing he remembered?

The last thing he really remembered was the sensation of something that had been lifted from him suddenly hitting him again. One brief taste of untainted emotion, and then he felt tight and uncomfortable again.

“Starscream?” Windblade’s question was broken by a yawn, and with a careful turn, he looked at her. She was stretching--cautiously--and her hair was a mess. She rubbed at her face with a vague look of disgust at the dried drool, and Starscream felt a distant stab of amusement. “Are you all right?”

“Everything hurts,” he rasped. Even speaking hurt, he discovered. Staying upright took too much energy, and he lowered himself back on the bed, carefully.

“Magical exhaustion,” she said, her voice as rough and quiet as his.

That said everything, even if he wished it didn’t. “How long?”

“Don’t know,” she admitted.

He pulled the covers back over him and realized that it had been Windblade’s body temperature that had made him feel so warm. He hesitated, before he said, “Could your magic soothe…?”

She started to shake her head and then winced. “No,” she said. “I’m down to embers.” Her face went grey, and she rolled away from him to empty the contents of her stomach on the stone floor. He wrinkled his nose and closed his eyes. She finally stopped heaving--thank _Primus_ \--but there must have been some observers somewhere, because as soon as she finished (but was still groaning quietly), the door slid open to let into two priests.

One of the priests, carrying a tray, immediately went over to Windblade’s side. She drank a potion from a glass vial and the priest murmured to her, and the other priest came over to him. The second priest had the glow of magic around their hands. “May I help you, my lord?”

Starscream eyed the healer with suspicion. “I thought you couldn’t heal magical exhaustion.” If Hook had been lying, Starscream would make him pay for it. With blood.

“You can’t,” the healer said, “but I can treat the symptoms.” The healer nodded at Windblade. “Some symptoms are...more extreme than others.”

“I have a dreadful headache and body ache,” Starscream grumbled. “Can you…?”

“Of course.” The healer took Starscream’s hand, and Starscream allowed the stream of magic to pass through his skin. His headache receded immediately, and his body’s pain folded over until it was mere stiffness. Starscream looked the healer over as their magic pulled back in. “Where are we? Is there a change of clothes?”

“We’re under orders to escort you to the private baths,” the healer said wryly. “There will be clothes waiting for you there.”

“Excellent.”

Starscream rose with something approaching his usual grace. Windblade had to lean heavily on _her_ healer, but he could stand upright. His pride made him stand a little straighter, and it never occurred to him that the broadness of Windblade’s magic made it difficult for her to ever be fully at ‘embers’, and that for her to be so low was to be dreadful indeed.

She livened up a bit once they were in the baths, but her skin was sallow and dull. They had changed into bathing robes that were dark blue, and the steam rising from the water made it difficult to see all of her features. “What did you dream about?” she asked.

“I--don’t remember.” It wasn’t worth it to discuss the flashes of memory that had studded his dreams, between images he didn’t know how to understand. “You?”

“I saw the green fields of Cybertron,” she said wistfully. “With flowers of every color.”

“Really,” Starscream said.

Windblade warmed to the subject as her face brightened with it. “Wheat, barley, and corn, all moving in the wind. Wild flowers wove with the grasses, and everywhere I walked, they released small puffs of the most pleasing scents. I like violet, and there was violet everywhere.”

“How pastoral,” he said.

She smiled. “You have found me out,” she said lightly. “Pastoral scenes comfort me far more than urban ones.”

The combination of her smile and what she so badly wanted--a fertile Cybertron--made him feel strange. It made him want to give her something that would keep that smile on her face. A garden, perhaps. Yes. When they returned to Iacon, he would make arrangements and give her a garden. She could grow anything she wished, whether she wanted to be useful or just to give into the simple pleasures of beauty. He had no doubt that whatever she did, it would be a place of refuge.

He reached out to touch her hand under the water. She turned her hand over so that they could hold hands in the murky water, and she traced the pad of her thumb over his hand. “Have I presumed?” she asked, her smile dropping with worry. “I did not mean to do so, I just thought…”

“It’s fine,” he said. He dropped her hand. “So what did Solus tell _you_?”

She shifted under the water, causing tiny ripples. “To go to the place where life began,” she said, and Starscream knew mental editing when he heard it. Still, it was a good place to start.

“So she gave _you_ a directive,” he complained. “ _Me_ she just spoke in riddles to.”

“What did she say? I like riddles.” Windblade dragged her fingertips through the water, apparently fascinated by the whorls and eddies.

“That to know what to do, I have to go back to the beginning. Or something. It was really unhelpful.”

“Hm,” Windblade said. “That sounds like it refers to the same thing for me, unless it wasn’t?”

Starscream was in no mood to discuss his curse. He could perform mental edits too. “I think it does. What do _you_ think it means?”

“We need to go to Vector Sigma,” Windblade said. He blinked. “I suspect the water there will be helpful.”

“The...water.”

“Vector Sigma is the place where life began, or supposedly,” Windblade said stubbornly. “It makes sense.”

“And how do you plan on taking this water back to Iacon?” Starscream raised an eyebrow. “In your hands, perhaps?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I have specially treated jars, of course,” she snarked. “It will keep the magic of the water inside them.”

“Hmph.”

She smothered a smile, but her eyes lit up all the same. That strange feeling was back again--wanting to give her something. He shook his head in an effort to dislodge it. “So now what? We’ve successfully steamed our skin until it’s nothing but wrinkles.”

“Now we take a cold shower,” Windblade sighed. “But then we’ll get to dress warmly and the priests will put us back to bed.” She flushed. “Um. Our _own_ beds. They’ll ensure the rooms are kept warm enough.”

“And then…?”

“And then we’ll likely sleep until the New Year’s celebrations tomorrow evening. The day after New Years, everyone sleeps and rests. The few servants who work get paid handsomely for it and any days off the coming year of their choosing, before servants with more seniority. Then it’s quiet for a bit until the Feast of the Firelight, where we exchange gifts.” She peered at him. “Does that answer your question?”

“Enough,” he allowed. Then, “It has to be _cold_ water?”

“Unfortunately,” she grimaced, and that about summed up the experience.

\--

Lightbright couldn’t recall the last time Windblade had gotten so exhausted, but it was as good a time as any to get her to talk. When Windblade was exhausted, her mouth ran without conscious thought.

Lightbright found Windblade seated at the table in her sitting room, tucking into a bowl of broth and noodles, still wan. Her hand holding the spoon trembled faintly, but Windblade ignored it in favor of greeting Lightbright with a small smile. “How is the Temple? Rehearsals going as well they can?”

“They’re as ready as they’re going to be,” Lightbright said as she sat down next to her sister. One of Thunderblast’s maids brought her a bowl of broth and Lightbright dipped her chopsticks into it. “Which is simultaneously frightening and pleasing.”

Windblade’s smile widened, and she picked up her tea cup. “Now you know what it’s like to be a teacher.”

“Yay,” Lightbright sighed. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” Windblade said. “And tired. So par for the course.”

Lightbright rose to stand behind Windblade. She pushed aside Windblade’s twin braids and summoned heat to her hands. It was hard, to contain fire within her skin when it wanted nothing more than to burst free. It came easier to Windblade, and Lightbright wondered why. She put it out of her mind as she applied her hands to Windblade’s shoulders and started to massage them.

Windblade slumped as Lightbright fought to keep control of the temperature. “Was it a difficult ritual?”

“Not as such,” Windblade murmured, “Just draining.”

“Did it tell you what you needed?”

Windblade tilted her head back to meet Lightbright’s eyes. “You could just _ask_ , little sister.”

“Did it--Solus, I mean--tell you how to solve the problem?”

“She gave us a clue,” Windblade yawned. “It’s enough for the moment.”

“Right.”

Windblade pushed her bowl away. “I’ll let you comb my hair before I climb back into bed,” she offered, and it was the best chance Lightbright was ever going to have to ask.

“I want to know more about what happened with Elita,” she said as Windblade seated herself at the vanity with minimal groaning. “Please.”

Windblade met her eyes in the mirror. “Why do you think there is some big secret there?”

“Because you’ve never talked about it. Even Chromia,” Lightbright nearly bit her tongue at the confession she had asked Chromia for an explanation, “said she didn’t know much, because she was separated from you for most of it.”

“It really isn’t that important,” Windblade murmured.

Lightbright rolled her eyes. “Please. If only so that...I know what it would look like if it happened to me.”

Windblade softened at that, just as Lightbright knew she would. “Elita’s not a villain in this story, Lightbright. She’s just...herself.” She sighed and settled into her chair.

Lightbright knew she was getting the edited version, but it was still more than anyone else had gotten for years. Elita had been kind and welcoming when Windblade arrived--it had been a difficult journey, but Windblade didn’t elaborate--and she had been given the whirlwind tour of the capital city of Carcer, Vigilem. A week and a half of entertainments, tours, and art with Elita at her side, and Windblade’s head had been turned.

Then when it came time to sign the treaty, there had been an assassination attempt. Elita had saved her life and had gotten her to safety, and then because the assassin team had melted away, Elita had her taken into protective custody. Three solid weeks of being in the most secure part of the palace, where the only people she saw were Elita and her security team, and by the time they had determined the threat had passed, the snows had come and she and Chromia were stuck.

Elita had taken excellent care of her, and for six months, Windblade had been gloriously in love and Elita had been gloriously in love too. Then the snows had melted and real life had intruded. Elita had promised her marriage, and Windblade wanted it.

But Mother said no, and Windblade had to return home to face everyone’s scorn for daring to fall in love and then having to leave. She didn’t add anything else, but Lightbright heard the echo of Hot Shot’s venomous “ _Slut”_ and ached for her. “Was Elita the only one you had?” Lightbright asked.

“No,” Windblade said, “but the only other affair I had was no strings attached. It worked out well--no one had expectations beyond the immediate, and it was...healing. To have someone find value in me again.”

“Oh,” Lightbright said as her heart broke. “Windblade--.”

“You don’t need to say anything,” Windblade shrugged. “I’m well aware that most people find value in me for my magic and my skills and mistake that for a value in me.”

Lightbright’s heart turned over as two things crystallized in her mind. She needed to talk to her mother and she needed to pass some things along to Starscream. She wasn’t going to let Windblade be hurt again.

“You can’t say that that isn’t true,” Windblade reproved when Lightbright struggled for something to say.

“You can’t base your value on Hot Shot’s gossip,” Lightbright said finally. “It’s not-- _he’s_ not--.”

“We both know exactly what he is,” Windblade said. “And we also know that the only reason why he is the way he is is because Mother has let him. He’s aggravating and I want to push his head through a wall whenever he opens his mouth, but other than that, I don’t care. He sees me as a threat to his position. That’s nice for him.”

Lightbright reached out to squeeze her sister’s shoulder. “Windblade.”

Windblade met her eyes in the mirror, and not for the first time, Lightbright marveled at how alike they looked, from their matching blue eyes, to the white tattoos and even their smiles. “I knew you would regret knowing,” Windblade said. “It’s why I don’t talk about it.”

“I don’t regret knowing it,” Lightbright argued. “I just wish you could have told me sooner.”

“So that you could have done what?” Windblade shook her head. “You’re only nineteen, Lightbright. Some things aren’t fair to put on you.”

Lightbright opened her mouth, but Windblade shook her head. “That’s enough,” Windblade said softly. “I need to sleep.”

Lightbright hesitated for a moment, and then she kissed Windblade’s cheek. “I love _you_ ,” she said fiercely.

Windblade smiled faintly. “I love you too, my darling.”

Lightbright left her with a mission in mind.

\--

The Mistress of Flame was startled from her reverie by Lightbright throwing the door open. “Lightbright--?”

“Why did you refuse her?”

“What?”

“Elita! Why did you refuse Elita for Windblade? It would have made her _happy_ , and she’s so _un_ happy and--it’s breaking my _heart_.” Lightbright sniffed.

“You don’t know the full story,” the Mistress of Flame said tightly. “There is more to the situation than just Windblade’s happiness.”

“Then _tell_ me.” Lightbright threw herself into the couch in front of the fire. “Because I need a damn good reason to justify why she was allowed to believe that it was only her magic that mattered and why you’ve allowed Hot Shot to treat her so badly for _years_.”

“When we first started talks with Carcer, it was in March, just after the snows had melted. By July, I was ready to have a delegation go to Carcer, but then we got hit with all these meaningless amendment changes--word changes, grammar nitpicks, everything. I was so frustrated, because the _spirit_ of the treaty had already been agreed to, and it was just…” The Mistress of Flame shook her head. “It became clear it was a stalling tactic, but I didn’t know _why_.”

“But then,” Lightbright was standing on the precipice of something she wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but she had started this and she had to see it through.

“Then, in October, we had everything we needed, and then Carcer demands that a member of the royal family be part of the delegation to sign. Even then, I didn’t suspect anything. It wasn’t that unusual. It would confer more legitimacy. I didn’t like the timing, but the weather witches said the snows would arrive late that season, so we timed it and knew that we would cutting it close but we would make it.”

The Mistress of Flame sighed and rang a bell for tea. “Everything went well.”

“Until it didn’t?”

“We got the news of the assassination attempt. It was too neat--Carcer’s known for their security and their military, and the fact that someone got that close without Carcer’s forces stopping them was—wrong. Then, most suspicious of all, they separated Windblade from her bodyguard and kept her in isolation. A lot can happen in isolation. By the time they ‘decided’ she was no longer in danger, she was snowed in.” The Mistress of Flame shook her head. “Strange how we were never told that her assassin was caught and tried.”

Lightbright stilled. No. _Oh_ , no.

“Then when we finally get news again, Elita is demanding Windblade’s hand in marriage and the entire Northern Reach as her dowry. We have been defending the Reach from Carcerian incursion for generations. They think nothing good of Carcer. How could I turn my back on them? Windblade is my daughter, but they are my _people_ , and I could not turn them over to Carcer.” The Mistress of Flame covered her face with her hands. “And the whole situation was not right. They did not try to court her properly. So I turned her down.”

“You broke your daughter’s heart.”

“First loves always break your heart,” the Mistress of Flame said softly. “No matter what, they always break your heart. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry that it had to happen that way, but Elita was not right and this was how I protected her.”

“And Hot Shot? The way he treated her is just--.”

“Unacceptable. Yes, you’re right.”

“But then _why_ \--?”

The Mistress of Flame considered her youngest daughter, and then she went to her safe. Lightbright watched, open-mouthed, as the Mistress of Flame drew out Hot Shot’s chart. She had fought with her star-mapper, had even sought second and third opinions, but it always came back to this conclusive chart.

Lightbright stood as the Mistress of Flame spread out the chart on her desk. “This is Hot Shot’s chart of the placement of the stars and planets when he was born. I know that this is an esoteric branch of magic, but when it is done by a master, it can reveal much.” The Mistress of Flame met Lightbright’s eyes, so like her own when she was young. “Hot Shot’s chart is clear--he will die before he turns twenty-six. It will be done by some kind of external influence, he won’t catch a cold and die, but it cannot be changed. I have tried.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Lightbright whispered.

“He is still my child too,” the Mistress of Flame’s voice broke. “And knowing this...I had to indulge him. You and Windblade will live long, healthy lives and leave a legacy. Hot Shot’s legacy will be only in those who remember him. How could I--?” She swallowed. “I have given him preferential treatment. I have spoken with him on how he treats Windblade, but he should have a chance for happiness while he can.”

“That was why you didn’t dissolve his marriage,” Lightbright realized.

The Mistress of Flame nodded. “He is never going to inherit, but Windblade’s status as a cityspeaker already complicated the issue of succession and when he was born, it was taken as a matter of course.”

“But if Windblade marries Starscream, then that leaves…” Lightbright’s eyes widened. “You’ve been grooming me for this all along, haven’t you? That’s why you’re showing me this.”

“Windblade has spent too much time away from Caminus,” the Mistress of Flame murmured. “And I always intended for her to the diplomat in any case. She has the right frame of mind for it. She could empathize with anyone. But an alliance with a growing Cybertron is something worth nurturing.”

Lightbright couldn’t find the words. She had been given so much information, her brain was at odds and ends. She rose. “I want to talk to you about this. Later. But for now I need to think.”

“Take all the time you need,” the Mistress of Flame replied. “But keep it to yourself. I don’t want your brother to live like someone condemned.”

“No,” Lightbright snapped. “You just let Windblade live it.” As she strode from the room, the Mistress of Flame reflected on that statement.

It was mostly fair, she allowed. Unfortunately.

\--

Starscream found a small table to descend upon to avoid the lines of entertainers and servers in the main hall. The pageants had already gone on, and while he hadn’t understood a word of it, the choreography had been amazing to watch. Apparently, during the New Year celebrations there was never a full dinner, but rather just servers with small plates.

He watched Windblade weave among the people with a full glass of _something_ in her hand until she sat down at his table. “Did you miss me that much?” he inquired.

“I’m avoiding Hot Shot and Thunderblast, I’m avoiding Lightbright, and as a result of all that avoidance, my mother is staring at me so I’m avoiding her too.” Windblade drank deeply out of her glass. “This is good, you should have one too.”

He struggled with amusement and lost, as he chuckled at her. “I don’t drink.”

She frowned. “You don’t? Oh.” She flagged down a server, and when they came over, she placed her glass on it. “Could you bring me two juices? Thank you.”

“You didn’t need to get rid of that,” he said.

She shrugged.

“So why are you avoiding...everyone?”

She sighed. “Lightbright and I had a difficult conversation yesterday, and she keeps looking at me with, with _concern_. It’s annoying.”

“Should I ask?”

She shook her head and rested her chin on her hand--carefully, so as not to disturb her white face powder. “You look nice.”

He glanced down at the burgundy robe that Thunderblast’s tailors had thrown together and finished just that morning. “Thank you. It was Thunderblast who pulled it together.”

“She did?” Windblade’s mouth, painted exquisitely with red paint, curled slightly with curiosity. “I hadn’t thought she would.”

“She was surprisingly helpful.” He nodded to her ensemble, a navy over-robe with constellation embroidery over a periwinkle gown, all tied together with a scarlet belt. “You look--amazing.”

Windblade’s cheeks flushed under her make-up. “Thank you.” The server brought them her juice, and she pushed one cup at him. “That...means a surprising amount.”

He took the cup and sipped from it instead of answering. It was easier than looking in her eyes and knowing what he had done to her. “So does this party go on in this fashion until midnight or what have you?”

“At midnight, we thank Solus for another year and then the partying moves up,” Windblade said as she swirled her cup in her hand. “But Mother vanishes after the midnight hymn and so do I. I feel that the court is more comfortable when the more, hm, _stiff_ persons have removed themselves.”

“Ah.” ‘More partying’ typically meant ‘more alcohol’ and ‘unsafe sex.’ Starscream shook his head. “I think I will retire then also.”

Windblade opened her mouth to say something and then shut it again. Indecision played across her face until she sidled a little closer, close enough for him to feel her body heat, and she whispered, “I have a question.”

“Go on,” Starscream said, a touch warily.

“You kissed me.”

“That isn’t a question.”

“Why?”

He considered his answer. The first, and most honest, answer would involve him speaking honestly in that she was not as subtle as she wished to be when it came to hiding her feelings, her very physical feelings at that, and he was willing to encourage it because it would make their future marriage go easier. That, however, was not the _right_ answer.

He settled on, “It seemed the most appropriate response.”

She blinked at him, and it was probably a trick of the light and shadow in their nook, but her blue eyes took on the hue of the heart of a candle flame. It was disconcerting. “Why?”

He picked up her hand and ran his thumb over the inside of her wrist. He felt her pulse speed up, and he fought down the smirk. She was just too easy, and he met her eyes again. “You’ve done so much for me,” he said. “I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t grateful.”

She frowned, and he realized that wasn’t the right answer as she removed her wrist from his grasp. “You don’t owe me anything,” she said. “What I do, from my work to my magic, is not transactional. I see a need and I try to meet it. There is no thought of reward or recompense.”

He struggled with that concept. No one survived the war through altruism. He put aside his own thoughts for the moment to gaze at her. They locked eyes and held it for a moment as he said, “I did not mean to imply that you did. But you _must_ see that I can’t stand to be in debt more than I have to be.”

She settled back down, with their eyes still meeting, but she replied, “I dislike being rewarded with sexual favors. It makes me feel like a--.”

“They do hard work,” Starscream said mildly. “I don’t understand why Camiens see sex work as degrading. There were a handful of times that a whore kept the whole Decepticon army together.”

“Solus _gave_ us sex as something joyful,” Windblade told him, “To pay for the experience is...anathema.”

He shrugged. “What else should I reward you with then? I wouldn’t want to get a reputation for exploitation.” That was a complete and total lie, the whole _business_ of government was exploitation but with enough perks to get people to agree to the governance, but Starscream had lost ground and needed to regain it quickly.

“Why do you need to reward me in the first place?” She tilted her head, and finally broke eye contact. Starscream’s head swam briefly, before he concentrated on the matter at hand.

He leaned in more closely to her, and his leg touched hers. She jumped, but after she relaxed, she didn’t move away from him. “Why shouldn’t I want to?”

Her lips parted in surprise, and she appeared to have no other answer for him. He looked away from her to drain his cup of juice, to hide his satisfaction. She really was just too easy to play, even if he felt the annoying, trifling need to appear to be a fair player.

They both flinched as Lightbright landed across the table from them. She had a violently purple drink in one hand, and she pursed her lips when she realized they were drinking juice. “Really?” she sneered.

“Don’t act like you knock one back regularly,” Windblade said affectionately. “And you’ll regret that tomorrow.”

“That’s a problem for tomorrow. Don’t tell Mother, but I’m gonna steal Sparkstalker after midnight and ring in the New Year.”

“Don’t drink more than one of those, then, otherwise you’ll be nigh useless,” Windblade advised.”And Sparkstalker is not going to want to have sex while you’re puking your guts out.”

“ _Thanks_ for that,” Lightbright grimaced.

“You’re welcome,” Windblade chirped.

“So what do you two do to while away the time until midnight?” Starscream inquired as a server brought three cups of juice over.

Lightbright gave him a wicked smile and pulled a deck of cards out of her fancy dark blue robe-dress. Honestly, Starscream couldn’t keep all the Camien fashion straight. “Gin?” she asked.

Windblade grinned.

‘Gin’ was a card collection game, with runs and suites and points gained for however many sets you laid down. Lightbright was a whiz, and once Starscream got the hang of the game, he competed with Lightbright, set for set. Windblade was happy to trail behind them, and he supposed that every game needed a gracious loser to buffer the competition.

They had just completed their third game when a priest novitiate came to them and touched Windblade’s shoulder. She rose and went with the priest, and Lightbright gathered the cards. “What’s that for?” Starscream nodded at the duo.

“Windblade and Mother sing the Midnight Hymn. They get it started.” Lightbright rose and placed her cards inside her robe. Starscream came around the table to stand next to her to face where the Mistress of Flame waited on the dais, her hands hidden by her robe’s voluminous sleeves.

The lights dimmed to let the starlight into the large room, and when Windblade opened her mouth, pureness sang from it. Her voice thrummed with emotion, and when the Mistress of Flame joined her with a higher refrain, that marked the time for the surrounding audience to fill the hall with the song.

Lightbright turned toward him. “You need to tell her.”

Starscream blinked at the non sequitur. “I thought you felt I should not.”

“Things have changed. If she finds out from someone else, she will not forgive you. It’s going to be in the text of the treaty. She will find out. She needs to know.”

“I could live without her forgiveness.”

“Can you live with her hatred? She was a marriage pawn once and duped into believing she was cherished for herself. She believes that you care for her.” Lightbright swallowed. “If you do, you’ll tell her. Please.”

He thought about it and then nodded. “I will.”

Lightbright sighed. “ _Thank_ you.”

“One question. Who’s Sparkstalker?”

Starscream was gifted with the sight of Lightbright going bright red. “He’s my--um. Something.”

She melted away as Windblade left the dais, and Starscream wasn’t surprised when Windblade found him again. She glanced up at him. “Want to get out of here?”

“Please,” he said.

She took his hand and led him through the knots of people who were too busy to notice their exit. Her hand was warm and her fingers shook a little in his grip, and he looked at her. “Are you all right? Where are we going?”

“Um.” She swallowed. “To my suite?”

He raised his eyebrows. Bold.

She must have read his mind, because she flushed. “To play backgammon.”

Backgammon. Of course. “At some point, I am going to have to teach you chess.”

“Maybe when we get back,” she suggested. “You won’t find a chessboard here.”

“Yes,” he agreed. They were climbing the stairs, and she wasn’t letting go of him, and he was surprised that he didn’t want her to. Even if they were going to play backgammon only, it would be nice to spend time with her when they weren’t being observed or working on something.

She slid open the door to her suite and let him in. “Could you give me a moment? I just want to change into something more comfortable. You know where I keep the board.”

He nodded and sat down at the table as Windblade closed the door to her bedroom. Her suite was rapidly warming, far more quickly than it would with a fire or brazier, and that made him wonder. Then he realized, again, that this was a good opportunity to tell her about the marriage. He got to his feet and moved to the closed door. He knocked on it once and then slid it open. “Windblade, there is something we should talk about--.” He stopped.

Windblade turned toward him as he realized her blue underdress had no straps or sleeves and was held up with laced ribbons in the back. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry, and Windblade’s freshly scrubbed face turned a darker red. “Can it wait?” she whispered.

“For what?” he asked in a rare moment of stupidity.

She turned toward him fully, and his eyes fell down to trace her figure. She hesitated, and then she stepped closer to him. Heat emanated from her, and he leaned in toward her. She smoothed her hands over his chest, over the silk of his robe and the gold embroidery. “I would like to kiss you,” she said softly.

He looked down at her. “Then what are you waiting for?”

She moved onto the balls of her feet to curl her hands around the sides of his face and brought him down to kiss her. She was still shy, and his hands moved to her hips. The touch emboldened her as she deepened the kiss, and she sucked his lip into her mouth. He inhaled sharply and took control. She let him.

His hands slipped from her hips to her lower back, and he picked her up by the back of her legs to get her to the bed. Her hands moved from his face to move to the back of her dress, and he dropped her on the bed to help unlace the dress. Once she was free, they pulled the dress off until it pooled on the floor. Starscream stepped forward to take advantage of her newly de-dressed state, but she held up a hand. “That needs to get draped over a chair.”

“Why?” he whined. He wasn’t too proud to admit he whined.

“It’s a structured silk dress,” she said, laughing. “There’s no way I’m risking dirt on it. And you need to join me.”

“Maybe I like to be clothed,” he grumbled as she moved past him to drape the dress over the clothespress.

She turned back to him with an unfamiliar smile. It was... _impish_. She slipped out of her soft leather shoes and he took the moment to enjoy the image of her in her laced undergarments and stockings while she clambered back onto the bed and splayed her legs. “So you prefer to watch?” She ran both of her hands down her sides to her hips and the outside of her thighs. He stepped forward instinctively as one of her fingers played with the ribbon ties of a stocking. “I can do that.” She ran the edges of her nails from her hips up to her sternum and her collarbones.

“Where did you learn?” he _had_ to ask. It was not something she would have learned in Caminus.

Her smile broadened as she arched into her own touch. “I knew Override very well.”

“ _Override?_ ” His voice broke as he fought the buttons on his over-robe. “ _Prince_ Override?!”

“She’s marvelous,” Windblade breathed out.

“Isn’t she married?” Starscream persisted.

“Oh yes, to Ambassador Moonracer. Moonracer just had their first child. I was lucky enough to attend their wedding. I know Moonracer well, too.”

That was enough information to make Starscream sputter at the implications. He pushed off his robe and pulled his boots off, and he didn’t care about the torn threads or popped buttons. “ _Two_ ,” he said.

Windblade was laughing at him as he frantically fought free of the prison of his clothes, but it was gentle laughter. “Multi-partner relationships are much more common in Navitas. It was good--healing, even, to know that I was desirable.”

“Well,” he said as he yanked at the lacings on his trousers and jumped/danced out of them. “I can assure you that you are _definitely_ desirable.”

Her fingers fell to the lacings of her own undergarments, and she worked at the ties as she said, “That’s good to know.”

He helped her take off the undergarments and the stockings, and then he crowded her up against the pillows to kiss her. Her legs wrapped around his hips, and she used that leverage to pull him in closer. He let her, but his hand fell down her side to the crook of her legs. He reached for her cord--

And she had no cord.

He reared back, and Windblade made an unhappy noise. “Why did you stop?”

“No cord?”

“I can explain to you why, but that would effectively kill the mood. Keep kissing me.”

Only because it benefited him, he obeyed, but he kept his hand moving down until he found her quim, dripping wet and _hot_. He slipped two fingers inside and crooked them up, and Windblade gasped. Her hips twitched, and he grunted. “Just like that, Princess.”

She grasped his shoulder with one hand and he spread his legs to balance better on the bed as she rode his fingers. His skin seared with heat, but the slight pain just made him harder. Her free hand landed on the bed and twisted in the covers, but even though her cheeks were flushed with heat and arousal, she met his eyes and held them. “More,” she whispered.

That was a command he had no problem obeying.

When she climaxed, she nearly burned his fingers, and he pretended as though it hurt more than it did. She let him go to drag a hand down her face. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she groaned.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll recover.”

She pushed at him with her foot, and he grabbed her ankle. She yelped at his touch. “You’re cold!”

“Damn straight,” he agreed, before yanking on her ankle and dragging her down the bed. She yelped again, before giggling as he laid on top of her. She folded her legs out of the way and cupped his cheek.

“What do you want?” she inquired.

He ran the tip of his nose down her cheek to her jawline, and he kissed her under her ear. She shifted underneath him and then stifled a gasp when he bit her. He worked at the skin until he was pleased by the mark he left behind. “I want you.” He pulled back to meet her eyes. “ _All_ of you.”

She swallowed to clear a lump in her throat. “Well then.” She spread her legs and gestured to him. “Come on.”

He obeyed.

\--

There was a crash of thunder outside of the windows as Lightbright poured the tea for Mother and herself. “The weather witches didn’t say there would be a blizzard,” she commented as she spooned honey into her own cup. “I hope the green witches had enough warning to cover the flowers.”

“I informed them as soon as I felt the change in pressure,” Mother remarked as she added half a small spoon’s worth of sugar to her tea. She must have been drained, to rely on the hollowness of a sugar rush. “But I wasn’t that surprised.”

“Why not?” Lightbright asked as she sipped.

Mother smirked slightly. “What happens when heat meets cold?”

Lightbright stared at her. “You can’t mean that.”

Mother drank her tea and pointedly said nothing.

Lightbright grimaced. “I did _not_ need to know that! But I’m guessing it will make things easier.”

“I’m not certain about that.” Mother slid a fat envelope across the table. “This intelligence came in late last night, before the blizzard set in.”

Lightbright unhooked the clasp and scanned through the documents within. After she read through the top five sheets, she looked up at Mother, who nodded. “It would appear the Autobot faction is taking advantage of Lord Starscream’s absence.”

“But who is so foolish to strike in _winter?_ ” Lightbright wondered aloud.

“Someone who is sure they have the supplies and the shields,” Mother said. “They will have to leave as quickly as they can pack. Lord Starscream will need to protect his people, and she will need to be by his side.”

Lightbright sighed. “I had hoped that she would get to stay until spring. I’ve missed her.”

“Only Solus knows what will happen,” Mother said. Lightbright refilled both of their cups. “I will ensure that they both hear of this at a more...appropriate time.”

Lightbright rolled her eyes. “Yes Mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEEEEEAAHHH.
> 
> I love to hear all the comments. I love characters with complicated backstories, so while we get Windblade's backstory for now, I _promise_ we will get Starscream's. One thing I wanted in this story was not to have flashbacks, even when it would be easy, because I wanted the experience of what happens when you tell your stories to an audience. You see it from your own POV and you're ignorant of the other factors, and I wanted to keep that intact.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, stuff happens. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include misogyny and violence. We finally see Windblade's temper.

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN: SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES**

_New Year 1037 AP_

Springer shifted his hands on the reins of his horse. “We’ll have to stop soon,” he said to Prowl. “We’ll need to give the shields time to recharge.”

“We’re coming to a sheltered space. Could the shields be rooted in the stone there to recharge?” Prowl inquired. His head had cleared once they had packed up and headed out. It was almost like the old days.

“That should work,” Springer nodded and kicked his horse into a gallop to go to the head of the column of riders. After he left, Prime nudged his horse into the space Springer had left behind.

“We’re stopping? Really?”

“If we want to keep pressing on in blizzards that would cripple our army, we have to,” Prowl said flatly. “Your revenge can wait the extra time.”

Prime’s jaw tightened. “I have higher expectations than this.”

“You’re welcome to keep them,” Prowl snapped. “But we can only deflect the _weather_ for so long.” The shields had been a work of brilliance--it was a modification of an existing shield spell for sieges. The magical shield grew stronger from the barrage attempts, so the most difficult part was setting the shield and the first few hours of holding it.

This shield spell had been modified to be anchored by moving crystals around all edges of the groups of soldiers, and for all the snow that Thundercracker and his ilk threw at them, it just made those shields stronger. The only drawback was that the crystals could only hold so much before they cracked, so the shields every few days needed to be anchored in something like granite while the crystals were drained of the excess energy.

Prime had been delighted in the brilliance of the solution, but impatient with the timing necessities. More than once, Prowl had wished other Primes were available, but the ones who lingered were even more difficult to control. This alliance was getting tiresome, but it was still the best chance he had. He would just have to arrange Prime leaving the stage after his final act in a way that even Pharma could not undo.

Prime scowled at Prowl before he made himself relax. “How long do you think we will be here?”

“It depends,” Prowl said warily. “The shields don’t protect from the cold, and the horses need to recover. We can’t kill them with our pace.”

“If Starscream is even a fraction of the leader Megatron was,” Prime said, “he will rush home to defend his city. Ideally we would be in place to keep him from getting home.”

“We’re coming from a different direction,” Prowl said, intrigued. “And it’s easier for a lone rider to circle around us. We’re large and noisy.”

“Will he be alone?” Prime asked, his eyes glinting. “The Princess and her entourage will be with him.”

“The Mistress of Flame wants to keep her child out of our war,” Prowl answered. “She may delay the Princess while allowing for Starscream to leave.”

“However. What if she is with him?”

Prowl shifted. “Starscream can be killed. We will need his death to help assure our rule in Iacon. The Princess, however, is another matter.”

“ _You_ could forcibly marry her. I’m sure there’s a priest somewhere who would do it.”

Prowl shuddered at the thought. “Oh, _no_. Rumors have it that she is sentimental and clingy. Our spy in Caminus also reports that she plays the wanton. If I were to ever marry, it won’t be to an overemotional slut. No, she’s wanted by one of our allies, alive and unharmed.”

Prime tapped his fingers on his thigh. “Have the Wreckers create a loose net from the direction Starscream and the Princess will come,” he said abruptly. “They can herd them and capture them.”

Prowl nodded slowly. “I will order it done.”

Prime’s face creased in a smirk. “See that you do.”

\--

Windblade woke up slowly, sated. Oh, it had been _too long_ since she had had sex. She stretched all the way down to her toes, but when her arm encountered a suspiciously empty bed, she opened her eyes to see that she was alone. Her residual relaxation faded as she sat up to scan the empty room. “Starscream?”

There was no answer, and she slid from the bed to find her robe. She slipped the silk robe on and tied it. “Starscream?” she called again. She hadn’t ever had a lover leave her the morning after before, but she had heard stories and she didn’t enjoy the experience. What happened to wanting all of her?

Her hair was a mess, and she picked at the remaining hairpins until her hair fell down in a tangle of knots. She picked a comb to undo the tangles from her vanity desk, and she went to work on them as she walked around her bed to go into the rest of her suite. “Starscream?” her voice emerged much smaller than she wanted. “Are you here?”

The door to her water closet was closed, and she gulped before she knocked. When it opened, showing Starscream with half a face of shaving soap, she nearly collapsed with relief. “I was afraid you’d left,” she admitted.

He rolled his eyes. “No. I was hoping to shave and slip back into bed before you woke up.”

“Why?” she asked as she worked on a particular knot.

“I heard you liked your partners clean-shaven and there were things we haven’t done yet.” He applied the straight razor to the soap on his cheek. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You still could,” she offered. “When you’re done, I think I could still sleep some more and then…”

He laughed. “You are insatiable,” he told her, but it sounded like he was delighted.

“Only when I _really_ enjoy my partner,” she said primly. Her hair was finally untangled, and she ran her fingers through her hair to check for any sneaky knots lying in wait. When she couldn’t detect any, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and slipped the comb into her robe pocket.

Starscream’s eyes were hooded as he wiped off the last traces of shave soap. He put down the towel and stalked toward her, and she stilled when he stopped in front of her to lift up her hair and bury his face in it. “That’s a trifle strange,” she teased. “Should I bathe?”

“No,” he dragged her closer to him and wrapped his arms around her.“Just stay here.”

“All right.” She ran her hands down his bare back to the waist of the pants he had found somewhere. He had more scars on his back, but nothing regular. All were twisted or knotted, and she closed her eyes. She hoped they came from war and nothing else. She couldn’t stand the notion that they were deliberately inflicted.

“I never thought you would be a cuddler,” she remarked when he settled his chin on her shoulder and continued to play with her hair. “It’s sweet.”

He reared back indignantly, just like she knew he would. “I do not _cuddle_.”

“Then what were you doing just then?” she asked, saccharine-sweet. “I wasn’t _objecting_.”

He released her and stalked away from her. She let him, aware that he needed to get his sulking out, and she went back to bed. He would join her in a minute. She slipped onto the mattress and found the small novel she had been working through and she flipped it open.

Once Starscream worked through his pet, he joined her on the bed. She flicked her gaze from her book to him, but went back to her book.

“I have a question.”

“Mm?” She rolled from her back onto her side and rested her chin in her hand as she gazed at him.

He ran a hand down her back and tangled it in her loose hair. “During that assassination attempt, why didn’t you use fire?”

“Too many opportunities for collateral damage,” she replied, “and--I’ve worked hard to control fire. It takes a great deal of control to work with it, and I can’t just summon it. When I’m pressed and overwhelmed, I can manipulate it but I can’t summon it. When you add in the chance for collateral damage…” she shrugged. “I did the right thing.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes, her skin rippling pleasantly at his display of unexpected tenderness. “You always do your best to do right by people,” he murmured. “That’s--good.”

“You approve?” she opened her eyes to arch her brows at him.

He stretched languidly, and her body heated. “Someone has to.” He flicked an amused look at her. “Does your body temperature go up when you’re aroused?”

She flushed. “Is it that obvious?”

“I’m not objecting,” he said as he tugged some of her hair. He rolled closer to her on the bed. “I run low, after all,” he whispered, and she pulled on his arm to kiss him.

She was enjoying the kissing and was vaguely strategizing how to get on top of him when there was a knock on the outer door. She was determined to ignore it, but then the knock came again, and she groaned. “Nooo,” she whined.

Starscream laughed but stayed in bed as she got out of bed and tightened her robe, which had somehow fallen open. Starscream chose to look innocent.

When she came to the door, one of her mother’s messengers was there with a sealed note. Windblade took it and closed the door, and she broke the wax seal. She heard Starscream come out of her bedroom as she scanned the message’s contents.

“You’re frowning,” he remarked, and she felt the absence of warmth as he stepped close to her. “What happened?”

She passed him the note. He read it, and then he looked at her. “Did she send a copy of the message to my own quarters?”

She took the message back and shook her head. “She must have guessed we would be together.”

“Hm.” Starscream shook his head. “She must have seen us leave together last night.” He took the note back. “I’ll need to get back to my rooms to change. I’ll meet you at the...Chamber of Ashes.”

“It’s the private audience chamber for when Mother has sensitive meetings,” Windblade told him. “Come back here and I’ll show you the way.”

He sketched a sardonic bow. “As you wish, my lady princess.”

She chivvied him out of her rooms. For the moment she was grateful for the space; Starscream had a way of taking up all the air in the room, and now that they were--she swallowed-- _lovers_ , his tendency to take up all space was just...more intense.

She went into her washroom and bathed quickly. One of her friends from the Temple school had been fascinated by water and steam engineering, and Windblade had given her permission for her friend to fiddle with her pipes until Windblade could have a standing bath. It made occasions like this one easy to prepare for.

She dried her hair with a quick spell and got dressed. Starscream was waiting next to her door when she exited, and in silence they left for the Chamber of Ashes. She agonized through the whole walk--should she take his hand? Loop her arm through his? She wasn’t one for public physical displays, but she felt that she should acknowledge the change in their relationship.

Before she could settle on a decision, they had arrived, and Windblade slid the door open for the two of them. Mother, Afterburner, Lightbright, and one of Mother’s spies--Windblade never caught their names--were clustered around a map-topped table. As they drew closer, she saw it was a map of northern Cybertron. “What’s going on?” she asked, making a beeline for the sideboard where there was a teapot, spare cups, and some teacakes. She helped herself and turned back to those around the table.

“The Autobots have rousted themselves from their aerie,” Starscream said with distaste as he scanned the map. He took the cup of tea from Windblade, and she rolled her eyes at him before fetching her own cup. He had stolen _her tea_ , the jerk.

“Why?” she asked as she examined the map.

“Why else? They are making for Iacon, to invade while I am not there to inspire the people.” The air around Starscream dropped in temperature as his anger grew. “As though they would side with the Autobots while I was absent. Like they could be so easily bought.” Starscream’s jaw tightened, and Windblade realized they were all waiting on his words. “They have their own legacy of brutality and violence.”

“In any case,” the Mistress of Flame said, “the question is: what would you like to do?”

“I need to get back there. I need to be there for my people. Thundercracker will do his best to slow them down, and an army moves slowly anyway, but my people need me.”

“Wait,” Windblade said, and Starscream wheeled to pin her with burning eyes. She held up her hands. “I’m not disagreeing, but hear me out.” Starscream took the intensity down a notch or two. “We need to get to Vector Sigma. Isn’t it in Autobot territory?”

“Only technically,” Starscream looked at her speculatively, like she was explosive material that required careful handling.

“Show me,” Windblade said, and passed Starscream the pointer.

Over the next hour, they argued over the virtue of going to Vector Sigma while the majority of the Autobot military presence was elsewhere. Starscream wasn’t against the idea, but he wanted Windblade to realize all of the things that could go wrong if she did not elucidate on her plan and make arrangements for potential traps and mires.

Finally, Windblade settled it. “Two people will move faster than a whole group,” she said. “We can spread rumors that we’re here for a few days longer, and reinforce that with my entourage leaving.” She looked to their audience. “We can leave two days from now, after the treaty ceremony, if you can cover for us.” She flushed and hesitated, before she said, “We can rely on the gossip about my,” her cheeks darkened with embarrassment, “my _reputation_ and have meals brought to my room while Chromia and my staff pack up my things. If we can prolong the fiction through the Feast of the Firelight, that can give us at least a four day head start.”

Afterburner’s mouth tightened with his temper, but the Mistress of Flame considered it. “I can arrange a Star Sail,” she said. “It’s not pleasant travel, but it can get you across the ocean in less than half the time.”

Starscream blinked. “ _How?_ ”

“Witchcraft,” the Mistress of Flame said blandly.

“Well, obviously,” Starscream snapped.

“With a Star Sail, that can get us a two-day lead,” Windblade said. “Can the embassy get us the necessary supplies and a cover?”

Starscream raised his brows at the Mistress of Flame. “Is the Camien embassy running a spy ring in my country?”

The Mistress of Flame raised her own brows. “Is that a question you want answered?”

He decided he didn’t. “ _Can_ they?”

“I have my ways of arranging it. In regards to your covers,” the Mistress of Flame shrugged, “the easiest is best.”

Starscream and Windblade exchanged looks. “I suppose,” Windblade sighed. “A young couple returning home…?”

“A de--no,” Starscream corrected himself, “a sick family member, and we’re coming home to help out in whatever way we can.”

“Like I said,” the Mistress of Flame told them, “the easiest is best. Will this cover be a problem?”

Starscream narrowed his eyes. “Have you run ops before?”

“Lord Starscream,” the Mistress of Flame sighed, “is that question relevant?”

He subsided. Windblade took over after an uneasy look at him. “I think that should be fine.” She straightened her shoulders. “May I take inventory?”

“I’ve already alerted the healing halls to be ready for you,” the Mistress of Flame assured her, “and that they should not stint. Our predictions are for a short winter, and the head gardener is insistent that she can triple the crop yield with her perfected spells. This is the perfect opportunity for her to prove that she is capable of contributing more than hot air.”

“If I might then be excused,” Windblade bowed and left them, and Starscream found a chair.

“For our cover, it would make the most sense that we would disappear for a few days if the engagement aspect of the treaty was announced,” Starscream said slowly, “but I would like to keep that quiet as long as I can.”

The Mistress’ eyes grew cold. “Are you so hesitant to own your manipulations?”

Starscream scowled at her. He was not obligated to give her his real reasoning.

“Mother,” Lightbright said, breaking their gazes. “I believe I have a better explanation and it will give them more time.”

“Go on,” the Mistress of Flame took a chair.

“The outlying villages always have difficulty this time of year when it comes to medical treatment,” Lightbright explained, “because the passes close up,” she added to Starscream when he showed his confusion. “One of them has sent a request by messenger bird for a nurse. Mother Superior has already picked her team, but what if we announce that Windblade and Lord Starscream are joining them? Windblade because of her fire ability, and Lord Starscream to see how our healers work.” Lightbright shrugged. “We can make the announcement about the invasion in their ‘absence’, and say that they will be leaving directly to go to the ships.”

“With the arrival of what would have been Windblade’s entourage to cover up their absence?” the Mistress of Flame considered it. “But they are both distinctive.”

“Lord Starscream’s aversion to cold has been gossiped about now the entire length of the island,” Lightbright said with an apologetic look in his direction. “No one will question a tall figure swathed in warm clothing as long as they don’t talk. As for Windblade,” Lightbright jerked her chin up, “I can disguise myself as her. No one will notice the difference in our heights if I’m on horseback.”

“You would have to carry this disguise all the way through,” Starscream pointed out. “Even to Iacon.”

“No,” Lightbright said defiantly. “It’s well-known that Windblade prefers to go on horseback instead of in a carriage, but if it’s as cold as you claim it will be, no one would question a carriage. I can teach Chromia how to apply paint to look like her tattoos. No one need know.”

Starscream considered it. There were too many things that could go wrong, but the majority of them were on the Camien side of the ocean. “I’m all right with it if you are,” he said gruffly to the Mistress of Flame.

The Mistress of Flame pursed her lips, but since her heir apparent (it was apparent to _Starscream_ , anyway, even if Hot Shot hadn’t gotten the memo) wouldn’t be going anywhere near Cybertron proper, she didn’t argue.

“We will announce it in two days time,” the Mistress of Flame decided. “And your presence in the court can be fleeting, so your absence will go unnoticed.”

“Great,” Starscream said. “Are we finished?”

“Is that all?” Afterburner challenged. “This is your city we’re discussing, under attack by your old enemies.”

Starscream rolled his eyes. What did these soft Camiens know? “What would you have me do, _Lord_ Afterburner?” He stood up in one fluid movement and released his hold on his aura. Afterburner flinched, Lightbright took a step back and the spy disappeared. Only the Mistress of Flame remained unruffled. “Would you have me rant and rave and scream about the tenacious treachery of the Autobots? Would you _see_ me lose my temper over these war-obsessed fools? Do you know what we fought for?” Starscream looked around the room, his breath coming in white puffs of air. “Until you know, until you understand what I was forced to sacrifice, you haven’t earned anything.”

Anger was the constant since he killed Megatron. It was always ready to jump to his hand at need. His anger caused him to turn on his heel and leave the room, and he was distantly aware that he had, in Thundercracker’s words, ‘grown.’ He hadn’t killed anyone in that room, and it hadn’t even been because of the mess it would have caused, politically. _They hadn’t been worth the effort._

He was an excellent killer. Maybe he didn’t kill them, he thought as he headed for _anywhere_ that wasn’t the Chamber of Ashes, because he saved his skills for targets that mattered.

That assured him that even if he was ‘growing,’ he hadn’t turned into someone unrecognizable.

\--

Soundwave lit the small burner and put a full kettle on it. He had never slept well in the whistling blizzards Thundercracker called up, even with adequate warning, so the best thing for him to do was a pot of tea and distract himself with something. The twins could sleep through anything--both sets--so he wasn’t expecting company.

Then his alarm spells in the front garden went off. Soundwave did not panic; instead, he turned off the burner and found the collapsible crossbow he kept hidden behind his tea canisters. Rumble and Frenzy did not like his blends and would not look there to cause mischief. He listened to the quiet footsteps on the porch and to the creak of the door, and when Jazz entered the kitchen, Soundwave had his crossbow trained on him.

Jazz held up his hands. “I gave you warning I was here.”

Soundwave deliberately waited a moment before he unloaded the crossbow quarrel. “You did,” he conceded. “Why are you here, Autobot?”

“About that,” Jazz said. He glanced over the kitchen. “You were fixing tea?”

Soundwave caught himself rolling his eyes, a reaction usually brought out by the twins’ antics. He returned to the burner and lit it again, but he never turned his back on Jazz. Once the kettle was back in place, he collapsed the crossbow and returned it to its hiding spot.

Jazz seated himself at the table in a way that showed Soundwave he was as unarmed as he was going to be. Soundwave returned to the table, and Jazz asked, “We gonna be interrupted?”

Soundwave considered the question as he felt for the twins’ presence. Rumble and Frenzy were asleep in a pile--they had their magic tied up in odd ways, and that led to their closeness. Buzzsaw and Laserbeak were at the roof of the house, the third level, and both were sleeping in jerks, but unless he reached for them, he and Jazz would not be disturbed. “No.” He tilted his head. “Why are you here?”

Jazz traced the grains of the table. “This is a nice place,” he said. “Little surprised you’d choose to be so away from everything. Starscream’s idea, or yours?”

“It is what it is,” Soundwave replied.

Jazz dropped his casual air. “How did you know when it was right to support Starscream over Megatron?” Soundwave stiffened. “Your loyalty was the stuff of legends. We didn’t even have a turn order on you, not like others. You were ‘kill on sight.’ Shocked us all when you let Starscream kill him.”

“I have a family,” Soundwave said.

Jazz rolled his eyes. “Yeah, so?”

“You never had one,” Soundwave observed. “In all of my Intelligence, that was one thing I was certain of when it came to you. You did not behave as someone who had a family or even had lost it. How can you know what it means to have one and to need to protect it?”

Jazz’s eyes darkened. “I loved Optimus.”

“Love alone does not make a family,” Soundwave said.

Jazz looked away, his fingers tapping the table with growing agitation. “What’s your point?”

“Megatron…” Soundwave trailed off as he tried to put into words the complex emotions Starscream’s coup still evoked. “He was a guardian, once. Then he went to Vector Sigma and came back changed. It started small--he no longer trusted Starscream, and Starscream resented it, but Starscream resented everything that did not work in his worldview. Then it became worse. He had always been violent. Guardians protect, and that protection is not peaceful, but I tracked his behavior. He used to ensure that prisoners were well-treated. One day, he did not give the order. Then he began to interrogate them himself. I hoped that he would settle after the war was done. He did not. I still clung to whom he had been, but then. He lashed out at Ravage and nearly killed her when she reported something he did not like to hear. That was when I knew.”

“Conquerors don’t make good kings,” Jazz said quietly. “Wait, he went to Vector Sigma?”

“Before the uprisings,” Soundwave said. “He took Starscream. I believe he had hoped for some sign of Primal favor.”

“I bet he did,” Jazz muttered. “So that’s what it took?”

“Why are you here, Autobot?”

The kettle whistled, and Soundwave went to tend to the tea pot. He hesitated, briefly, over whether to use the truth drops he kept stashed in cupboard. He used them when Rumble and Frenzy had been too obstreperous, but Jazz coming here _meant_ something to the Autobot. If he attempted to use the truth drops on Jazz and Jazz discovered them, there was no guarantee Jazz would keep his rage in check on just Soundwave.

“I would prefer it if this conversation never filtered back to Screamer, y’know?” Jazz lounged back in his chair somehow. Soundwave did not understand it; he had made those chairs specifically to keep Rumble and Frenzy from ruining their posture.

“I would also appreciate it if this conversation was not repeated to Prowl,” Soundwave replied.

“Deal.” Despite the apparent ease with which Jazz lounged, Soundwave had the sense that some truly portentous knowledge was coming. He was not disappointed. “Prowl killed Prime.”

Soundwave dropped a cup. It shattered on the wooden floor, and upstairs, he heard Frenzy jerk awake. In the magical tie the two shared, Soundwave hurriedly sent calm to Frenzy, who fell back asleep. Soundwave knelt to clean up the mess, which allowed him time to get his emotions under control. When it was done, he turned back to Jazz. “You are certain?”

“Dead certain,” Jazz said, his eyes gone cold. “It took me a long time to figure out, Prowl’s good at covering his tracks, and Prime…” Jazz shook his head. “Right before he died, Prime told Prowl and Bumblebee that he wanted peace. Prowl took it to mean that Prime wanted to ascend to peace. ‘Bee thought it meant Prime wanted peace between us and, well, everyone else. When we found out Prime was poisoned, Prowl went on the rampage, said it was Starscream. He managed to rile everybody up for a while, but it was winter, and that kind of temper doesn’t last long when faced with real cold. Prime didn’t die in pain, and he was old. Once winter had passed, the more logical thinkers left it. It might have been the most merciful thing, you know?”

Soundwave didn’t move. Something was coming that would explain everything--Prowl’s antipathy, the irrationality of the Autobot forces.

“But the more Prowl picked at it, the more I started to really think it through. Prime was poisoned over a long period of time. No one thought much of it; he got sick easy in the cold. Not too long before he died is when Starscream finally put his money where his mouth was and killed Megatron, and then he had to deal with pretenders to his throne all winter long. It was a busy time for him. The last thing he needed was an Autobot incursion. If Starscream was behind the slow poisoning of Prime, then he wouldn’t have arranged that final dose that finally killed Prime. He woulda kept it going for longer or stopped the poisoning entirely. Then, well,” Jazz shrugged, “close to the end, Prowl was so sure that someone was poisoning Prime that he cut off contact between Prime and everyone but Prowl, but Prime still got poisoned.”

Jazz didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t need to. Autobots had their bogeymen too, and whenever something went wrong, Jazz was the one who investigated. Soundwave exhaled. “How long have you had this knowledge?”

“‘Bout a year. I was sitting on it, trying to figure what I should do with it. The Autobots are splitting right down the middle ‘cause neither Prowl or ‘Bee has the right pull to keep them together. I couldn’t decide who I was gonna go with, but,” Jazz sighed, “three months ago, I figured out I _liked_ not killing people. Prowl wants me to go back into that. I like seeing my hands clean.”

“It sounds as though you have made a decision,” Soundwave observed.

“It’s not just that. I can’t just not work for Prowl. Prowl did something unforgivable.”

Soundwave raised an eyebrow. “Even by _our_ standards?”

“Prowl raised the dead,” Jazz said flatly.

Soundwave froze. “...what?” he croaked.

“That’s the real problem. If this--wraith stays, bad shit’ll happen to everybody. I think I have a responsibility to help that not happen, but to do that, I have to inform to Starscream.” Jazz grimaced. “You can see why that’s a problem.”

Soundwave nodded and reformulated his thoughts. “Megatron had lined up all of the weather witches and was going to kill them. Thundercracker was in that line. Starscream had enough and stopped him. Starscream understands family.”

Not enough to stop Megatron from killing _other_ people’s families, Jazz groused internally, but it was something he would have said to Prime, not actually meant. The war had taught them how to look after their own first, and Starscream, rot his eyes, had more reason than most.

“I don’t want to be Starscream’s errand runner just for giving him this alert,” Jazz said finally. “It’s just a friendly tip.”

Soundwave waited. Jazz already knew what his decision was going to be, but he needed the assurance that he was making the right one. “Fine,” Jazz muttered. “Thanks for the tea.”

“It will never be easy,” Soundwave said with the wisdom of long experience, “but it will be _right_.”

Jazz made a face at him and then disappeared with the slight _pop_ of displaced air. There was a point to that display. Jazz could have dismantled the alarm spells and snuck in, but he chose to let Soundwave know he was there.

Upstairs, Soundwave heard Frenzy and Rumble start to wake up, and with a sigh, he got up to to make more tea. His quiet would soon be disrupted for the day.

\--

There was a knock on Starscream’s door. He slid it open to see Windblade draped in another one of those shorter robes that ended around her calves with a scarlet dress underneath it. The robe was a dramatic onyx with gold embroidery, but the designs were so intricate that he couldn’t identify the pattern. She held a small wrapped package in her hands. “I wanted to catch you before the ceremony,” she said.

He let her in. “Why?”

“Well,” she explained as she turned to keep him in her line of sight while he closed the door, “I would have waited for the Feast of the Firelight, since that’s when we exchange small gifts for the New Year, but since we’re leaving tonight, it only seemed more appropriate.” She gave him the small package.

He eyed her as he peeled off the patterned paper. It was a small wooden box, and when he pushed back the lid, he saw a glass vial with brown seeds. He looked at her. “What is it?”

“They’re Vosian Sunburst seeds,” she answered. “I looked for something that would remind you of home.”

Home would be right. Vosian Sunbursts were large, early-morning bloomers, with bright yellow outer petals and deep orange inner petals. Some gardeners had even bred a variation with purple edging. They were gorgeous, and he hadn’t seen one since the fall of Vos when he was thirteen.

There was something in his throat, and he swallowed to remove it a few times. “Thank you,” he rasped. “I’ve got something for you too.” He turned his back on her to retrieve the small box from his belongings, which enabled him to rub his eyes. Something had gotten into them and he rubbed them clear.

When he returned to her, he was under control. He gave her the unwrapped box, and she opened it. Her eyes widened at the perfect teardrop of a ruby on a thin gold chain. “I made sure it could be used as a diviner for dowsing. I know that dowsing tools are usually rods, but I thought this would work better.”

She lifted the necklace from its nest of protective silk. “I’m no good at dowsing, believe it or not.” She shifted the necklace so that the ruby caught the light.

“Why not?”

“I can’t find water as water,” she said.“I can find it because of the life in it, but water doesn’t like me very much.” She held up a hand and a small flame lit on her finger.

“Well, it’s pretty,” he said.

She smiled. “Yes, it is. Help me put it on?”

He found the clasp on the thin chain and unhooked it so that he could drop it down on her neck. The chain was long enough that the ruby dropped behind her robe neckline, and she tucked the chain underneath the silk. After he closed the clasp, she turned back to him. He was surprised when she curled her hand over his jaw and leaned up to kiss him. “Thank you,” she said. Then she made a face. “Let’s go deal with my brother.”

He smirked. “After you.”

The reception hall was larger than any of the ones Starscream had been in prior; Mother had gone all-out in promoting this event and the treaty signing. Refreshments wouldn’t be served until after the ceremony, and Windblade hoped Afterburner would be rewarded for the treaty. It was a coup and a fitting end to his diplomatic career. Mother had hinted that he would be given a ministerial post as his ‘retirement.’

Mother gestured for them to join her on the raised dais, and Windblade lifted her skirts to make the step. Mother, Lightbright and Afterburner were there, but Windblade slumped a little when she saw Hot Shot and Thunderblast winding their way to join them as well. She didn't want to speak to either of them.

Once everyone that needed to be was on the dais with Mother, Mother gestured for quiet. “We are here to celebrate the achievement of Lord Afterburner and Princess Windblade in their work with Lord Starscream.”

Windblade tuned out the rest of the generic speech as she gave the assembled crowd a small smile. Mother spoke for another ten minutes, highlighting details of the treaty that would directly benefit Caminus.

Starscream, next to her, was radiating waves of smugness. Windblade buried the impulse to roll her eyes at him. Mother wrapped up her speech and started to step down, but Hot Shot stepped up next to her on the dais.

Windblade saw Starscream tense, and on the other side of the table, Lightbright frowned.

“We had wanted to leave it a surprise,” Hot Shot began, and Starscream flipped from confused to angry so quickly that Windblade was dizzy. Mother reached for Hot Shot, but he shook her off with a nasty smile at Windblade. “But I just couldn't wait any longer.”

“What is he doing?” Windblade whispered to Starscream.

Starscream’s jaw was tight. “Making an ass of himself.”

“This treaty is such a monumental success that we have to mark it with something truly special,” Hot Shot continued. “So after careful consideration and the will of the Mistress of Flame, we are delighted to announce the betrothal of Lord Starscream and Princess Windblade of Caminus.”

The world dropped out from under Windblade’s feet and her ears roared.

Somehow, she managed to keep her vacant smile on as there were cheers. Did so many people really want her gone, away from the court and Caminus? Or was she reading too much into it, where her fellow Camiens were really just grateful for another pillar of stability in the face of potential Carcerian incursion? In any case, she struggled between despair and blood-rushing rage. The despair made her want to fold into a heap of tears, but the rage inspired a need for destruction and punishment.

Her confusion between the two made it difficult for her to get a grip, but as Mother and Starscream signed the treaty document, she used her ability to fade into the background. Starscream avoided her after, which was good. She had a feeling he had been as blindsided as she was by the betrothal announcement, and he was volatile. Being around him would only heighten her confusion.

When she saw Hot Shot leave through a side-door with the facial expression of someone needing to attend a call of nature, her confusion crystallized into a single purpose. Hot Shot had used the treaty to get even with her one final time. She would have to remind him why she was considered such a powerful force with their neighbors.

The hallway was dotted with lit torches, which suited her purposes. She laid invisible strings of magic between the torches. When Hot Shot tripped the strings, the fire within the torches would follow the raw magic. It wouldn’t hurt him, but it would startle him, and that was all the opening she needed.

While she waited for him to return from the privy, she pulled off her robe. The dress underneath lacked sleeves and had a loose enough skirt that she could move in it. She draped her robe over a table and prepared.

Hot Shot came from the privy, adjusting his over-robe. He had never been the best at detecting raw magic, and when he tripped the strings, he yelled at the flash of fire in front of his face. He threw his hands up to push the fire away from him, and he failed to see the lash of flame that wrapped around his ankle.

He noticed it when she pulled, yanking him off his feet and dragging him down the length of the polished wood floor. He slammed into the wall and yelled with pain. “What the _hell_?!”

“You just couldn’t stand it for me to have my independence, could you?” she spat. “You just _had_ to fuck me over one last time.”

Hot Shot clambered to his feet, one torch dimming as he borrowed its flame. “You’re a whore,” he taunted. “You maintained our diplomatic relations between your legs. You think I want a slattern making our foreign policy? Starscream deserves you.”

Windblade breathed in sharply to control her temper. She was getting tired of Hot Shot shaming her for having a sex life, however infrequent that sex may have been. Solus did not insist on chastity from her devotees, and neither did Mother. She kept an eye on the fire in Hot Shot’s hand; he had never been good at control, he couldn’t even summon his own flame. She was better.

“So you decided to offload me onto someone you despise,” she said, applying her own control like a gossamer silk into the space between them. She was not going to let him set her on fire again. He had tried to turn fire against her; she would never forgive him for that. “And what did Starscream do to you?”

Hot Shot scowled. “He’s someone else who’s stupid enough to trust you over me. Let him choke on it.”

She swallowed rage and smiled instead as she took a step forward. “So when was it that you started to hate me?” He didn’t notice how the hall grew darker with each step she took. Fire belonged to her and always would. He was a fool to try to use something that was part of her against her. “When you realized I was smarter than you? That can’t be new news. Or is that I am held in higher regard than you?” She tapped her chin with a finger, grateful that it wasn’t trembling with anger. That would give the game away. “You did get married after I returned from Carcer. What were you so angry about?”

Hot Shot’s scowl deepened. “Because you get away with everything! You nearly married Elita without Mother’s blessing, and when you came back, she didn’t punish you! Even though Elita is _known_ to be unmoved by even the most scarlet of whores, you seduced her and nearly talked her into marriage and you weren’t punished! I marry someone who is a honest Camien _at least_ and I am faced with her censure! How _dare_ you!”

Then the fire came, but Windblade was expecting it. She slid her feet apart and braced herself, before the magic she had so carefully laid came to life and left the fire in her control. Hot Shot yelled in fury as she turned it around to throw him against the wall. Behind him, the wood charred as she stepped through the flames that separated for her passage. “You know nothing about it,” she said quietly when she was close enough for him to hear her over the crackling flames that were hungry for him. “You try to punish me for being a sexual being because you have no other ammunition. It is not my fault that you are so small when compared to me.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps I should make you smaller.”

She reached for him with her magic, but she found something that made her stop. Deep inside him, in the marrow of his bones, she found death there. She knew what it was. She had felt it before, but in those other cases, it was in an organ like the liver or the lungs. While it was in the organs, she had been taught, it could be excised by a skilled healer. If it was in the bones, like it was now, it meant death. No healer could restore the marrow after it had been invaded, hijacked.

She didn’t need to kill him. Death already had its hooks in him, and it would be a terrible passing. This, she thought, this was the justice of Solus. She took a step back and ordered the flames to recede. Hot Shot fell to the ground, burn marks where the fire had held him. He glared up at her and drew in breath to say something, probably curse her, but they were interrupted by Lightbright slamming the door open.

“Windblade, you shouldn’t!” she begged. “It wasn’t just his plan, except for announcing it tonight, Mother knew and so did I—.”

Anger of a different kind swept over Windblade then. “You knew,” she said, a voice that she didn’t recognize. “You and Mother both knew.”

“We thought you did, that’s what Afterburner said,” Lightbright wailed. “It made sense, don’t kill him!”

Hot Shot spat at Windblade’s feet. It didn’t get too far. “This is your final punishment,” he rasped. “Everyone, even Lightbright, wants you gone.” He pushed himself upright with difficulty, and Lightbright paled at the hate on his face. “Can’t you see, you slut? You shame us all with your lewd ways. Better to give you to Starscream.” Hot Shot smirked through blistered lips. “He seems like the type not to spare the rod in punishment. I hope he beats you daily.”

Windblade turned and left. There was nothing more to say, and she tuned out the argument that burst between her younger siblings at her exit. Everyone wanted her gone. She had no home anymore.

—

Thunderblast sipped her tea carefully as Hot Shot and Lightbright returned to the hall. Hot Shot looked daggers at Lightbright, whose lips were pursed. Her tattoos were livid against her pale skin; something had happened.

She waited for Windblade to come in after them, but when Windblade did not, Thunderblast put aside her tea. Starscream had watched the duo enter, and he rose, but Thunderblast reached from his arm. “Don’t,” she said into his ear. “Something’s gone wrong, and I have a feeling that you’re the last person she wants to see.”

“If Lightbright couldn’t calm her down,” he muttered at her.

“I’ll take care of it.”

He looked down at her. “She doesn’t like you.”

“And I don’t much like her, but this was poorly handled. Hot Shot wanted to hurt her, and he clearly accomplished that.” Thunderblast felt sick whenever she remembered Windblade’s face during the announcement. Windblade had kept her polite, diplomat’s smile on her face, but her eyes gave the lie away—she had been shocked and hurt, and Hot Shot had gloried in it.

Thunderblast hadn’t seen that side of him before, and she was heartsick at how to reconcile his casual cruelty to how soft and gentle he could be with her. No, Thunderblast didn’t know how to fix the poison between brother and sister. She didn’t even know how to fix her own; her marriage had been her saving grace.

There was one other person who had a chance to mend the damage, and Thunderblast went to her. The Mistress of Flame was seated in her opulent chair, discussing something quietly with Lord Afterburner, but he left when he saw Thunderblast approach. Thunderblast squared her shoulders. “You owe her an apology.”

“Do I?” The Mistress of Flame raised her eyebrows.

“You let that poison fester between them. You could have stopped it at any time. You know what he calls her, and you never said a word. That’s tantamount to agreeing with him.”

The Mistress of Flame sat upright. “Excuse me?”

“In all this time,” Thunderblast said through gritted teeth, “you’ve only ever treated our marriage as a mistake, something you’ve had to make up for in your community. You never stopped to ask _why_ we married in such haste.” Thunderblast forced her hands to unclench. She would ruin the fabric of her robe. “I, too, have a sibling who hates me. I forgave Hot Shot, Solus forgive me, I _believed_ him, but this was inexcusable and unforgivable, and _you_ let it happen. If you do not act soon, you will lose her.”

The Mistress of Flame looked as though she wanted Thunderblast to perish on the spot. “Get out.”

Thunderblast bowed. “With your _gracious_ permission. I have somewhere to be in any case.”

The Mistress of Flame dismissed her with a flick of her hand, and Thunderblast left the hall to make a beeline for Windblade’s apartments. Chromia saw her and joined her. “Is something wrong, my lady?”

“I think you know there is,” Thunderblast said tartly.

Chromia’s face twisted. “With all due respect, I don’t think she would want to see you right now.”

“That’s why it has to be me,” Thunderblast told her. “She’s not exactly on speaking terms with anyone else.”

Chromia’s eyes darkened. “I—.”

“Give me half an hour,” Thunderblast said. “If that makes you feel better. Half an hour, and then you have my full permission to interrupt us. She has to leave tonight anyway, right? But trust me, you’re going to want someone to speak to her before you leave.”

“And why is that?”

“Because,” Thunderblast said patiently, “she will be in a bad headspace otherwise, and that’s the last thing you need heading into hostile territory.” In her father’s house, servants weren’t near so mouthy.

Chromia scowled, but fell back to allow Thunderblast her lead. Thunderblast hurried to Windblade’s apartments, and she knocked once before sliding the door open. Windblade wasn’t in the bedroom or the main room, but Thunderblast found her in the nearly-empty study, where she was—crying?

But it wasn’t crying as Thunderblast had ever seen it. Trickles of _fire_ were coming down her face, where they sputtered on the stone floor and left black scorch marks. Windblade wasn’t sobbing, which made it worse.

“Windblade?”

Windblade looked up at her and then away. “Wonderful,” she said bitterly. “More gloating. I can assure you, my ego is quite destroyed at this point.”

“I’m not here to gloat.” Thunderblast found a handkerchief. “Believe it or not.”

Windblade took the handkerchief, which, when applied, did not burst into flame. “Then what are you here for?”

“Are you truly morally against this marriage?” When Windblade opened her mouth to say something, Thunderblast held up a hand. “If you’re against it, I know how to arrange to get you out of it. But if your biggest issue is how it was done, then…there’s nothing I can do for you.”

“Why would you help me?” Windblade blew her nose into the handkerchief. “You don’t care about much except fashion.”

“Because that’s all I am _allowed_ to care about,” Thunderblast snapped, before she bit back on the rest of her temper. “That isn’t the point. If the problem is Starscream, he can be taken care of.”

“Did you know?” Windblade said thickly.

“I did, but not about everything. Starscream told Hot Shot about it when you first arrived, and I know that he discussed it with Lightbright and your mother as well.”

“So it was truly a coup,” Windblade closed her eyes as more flame raced down her cheeks. “Everyone wants me gone.” She opened her eyes to glare at Thunderblast. “That’s what your dear husband said.”

“Is Starscream the problem?” Thunderblast demanded.

Windblade was silent as more scorch marks appeared on the stone floor. “No,” she said finally. “No, he’s not, although I wish he had _asked me_ before taking it to Hot Shot and letting Hot Shot do _this_.”

“That is a reasonable issue,” Thunderblast agreed. “But if the issue isn’t Starscream, then what is? The marriage itself?”

Finally, the flames stopped and Windblade rubbed her eyes. “I don’t want to be married,” she said in a thin voice. “I like my independence. Marriage is a trap. I’ll never get to be free again.”

There was something deeper to Windblade’s anguish, some visceral fear that gripped her. Thunderblast doubted Hot Shot had known what he was doing, but she knew he would love it. She decided then to never tell him. Not when it frightened Windblade so badly. “I’m sorry,” Thunderblast said. “This was done badly, and shouldn’t have been done at all.”

Windblade tilted her head against the wall. “Thank you,” she whispered. “That means more than you can guess.”

Thunderblast swallowed. “You’re welcome.”

—

Bumblebee woke up when he felt someone slip into his room. He rolled over and felt for his cane, but his leg was being less than cooperative. “Easy,” Jazz soothed, and Bumblebee rolled his eyes.

“You can help me sit up if you’re determined to be here,” Bumblebee grumped, and he yelped when Jazz took hold of his hands and yanked him upright. “How _did_ you get here? The last I heard, you were on campaign with Prowl.”

“Took a break,” Jazz said breezily. “Decided I needed to see you. How’s the leg?”

“Hating the cold,” Bumblebee grumbled. “Why are you here? Was there something new you found out?”

“Actually,” Jazz drawled it out. “I need to take you somewhere. I know it’s cold, but I’ve got specially enchanted cloaks and that should help your leg.”

Bumblebee folded his hands over the handle of his cane and stared one of his oldest friends down. “Where are we going?”

“Iacon.”

Bumblebee’s brain crashed and then got back up again. “Why Iacon?” he said carefully.

“We’re going to see Starscream. Or rather, I’m going to tell you everything I know and then you’re going to see Starscream. Can’t stand his face and he can’t stand mine.” Jazz shook his head. “Please don’t ask me if I’m sure. I’ve gone back and forth in my head over the last week until I was dizzy. I’m sure.”

Bumblebee nodded slowly. “I’m going to need help.”

Jazz’s shoulders relaxed. “I can do that.”

—

The Mistress of Flame entered her study with a quiet sigh and made a beeline for her brandy decanter. That whole event was a shitshow. Hot Shot had acted out, Windblade had disappeared, but at least the court had no clue something was amiss. Windblade’s reticence at court events had helped them there.

She drained a snifter of brandy and poured another finger’s worth. Her children were all disappointments—Windblade, for being such an independent bit of brass, Hot Shot, for being a resentful, angry creature, and even Lightbright, for enabling both.

She was being unkind, and she knew it. But she wanted to be unkind for a moment, before she would need to speak to her children and be understanding and forgiving. In her bitter state of mind, she wondered if Caminus even needed the treaty with Cybertron. Then she glanced at where she kept her intelligence and sagged. If Carcer was trying to fund uprisings for some kind of nonspecific endgame, then Caminus had to guard against that. If that meant allying with someone like Lord Starscream, it was the necessary thing.

But did she really need to give him her daughter…?

She heard the door slide open behind her and she turned to face the intruder. Her eyebrows went up when she saw it was Windblade, dressed in dark work clothes instead of her formal wear. “Windblade?”

Windblade closed the door behind her. “I need Intelligence.”

She was not expecting that. “For what?”

“Everything you have on Cybertron and the Autobots specifically, and,” Windblade hesitated briefly before adding, “and Carcer. If I’m going to be the lady of Cybertron,” her eyes looked flinty in the half-light of the study, “I’m going to need every scrap of information I can get my hands on.”

“That’s all, then?”

“For the moment. I know you have copies.”

The Mistress of Flame considered it, and then she nodded. She gestured for Windblade find a seat while she went hunting for the requested Intelligence files. Windblade was correct, she _did_ have copies, and she could give up the ones in her study. Windblade might even find her notes useful. She found the heavy files and placed them on the desk. “That’s everything. I can’t promise anything after this, of course, but I can imagine that Starscream already has some kind of Intelligence network in place.” Now it was her turn to hesitate. “Windblade—tonight, your leaving has to be delayed a few hours. There’s too much fog.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.”

Windblade’s tranquility was wearing on her nerves. After an upset this bad, typically Windblade indulged her temper or her despair. She had never just accepted what happened to her—unless it broke her. She had only seen the aftermath of what broke Windblade, and that was enough to trigger every protective instinct she had. This behavior was wrong.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, finally.

Windblade tilted her head, her eyes gone hard as flint. “Will you punish him?”

“What?”

“Hot Shot. I have been informed that his little announcement was not planned. Will you be punishing him?”

The Mistress of Flame swallowed, and she was beginning to regret that second brandy. “I—he wasn’t—.”

“So once again he gets off scot-free because you can’t stand to discipline him, and I am forced to bear the weight of his misbehavior.” Windblade’s fingers twitched. “Why do you let him do this? Why do you care so little about me that you don’t protect me?”

“I’ve protected you more than you’ll ever know.”

“Except from him.” The timbre of Windblade’s voice had changed into something uglier. “Even now, you prefer him to me. Why me? Why do you _hate_ me so much?”

“You don’t need me as much as he does.”

Windblade’s jaw dropped. “You’re my mother. You are the only parent I have left. I watched my father die, and I watched your second husband succumb to the red pox. I have _always_ needed you.” Her lower lip trembled, and she scrubbed at her eyes. Despair was peeking out from behind the tranquility, and guilt pricked the Mistress of Flame. This was _old_ despair, despair she had not known the depths of. “Time and time again, you have chosen him over me, and I let you.”

“What do you want from me?” the Mistress of Flame asked quietly.

“I have everything I need,” Windblade said tonelessly. She picked up the files. “Good night.”

As she left, the Mistress of Flame wondered if Windblade was actually saying _Goodbye._

Windblade went back to her rooms. Chromia was already overseeing the packing, and Windblade needed to glance over the Intelligence files before she had them packed away. The fog was due to lift in two hours, and she and Starscream would need to leave as soon as the fog was cleared off the path.

Afterburner was waiting for her there, but with one of his daughters. Windblade didn’t remember her name. “Afterburner?” she asked warily.

Afterburner bowed deeply when he saw her. “I wanted to apologize,” he said to the floor. “I was under the impression that you knew, and I was never part of the marriage discussions. I apologize.”

“Oh, Afterburner,” she said fondly. “I know you wouldn’t. You have too much integrity for that.” She glanced at Afterburner’s daughter. “May I ask why you are here?”

“I am of the understanding that you will need a secretary that can fluently speak and write Cybertronian. Aileron can do that, and she is also fluent in Carcerian. She can also—.”

Windblade held up a hand. “Afterburner, my dear friend, you don’t need to sell her to me. Your recommendation is enough.” She looked to Aileron. “This may not suit your immediate skills, but could you help Chromia pack? She knows how I like things.”

“I thought you were leaving in a week?” Aileron’s voice was high and thin, not at all like her father’s rich baritone.

Windblade glanced at Afterburner, who bowed again and left. Once the door was closed, Windblade looked at Aileron with a faint smile. “Officially, yes, but unofficially, Lord Starscream and I are leaving in two hours. We need the cover. Everything gets packed.”

“Even the Camien artifacts?”

Windblade’s smile widened. “Especially those.”

Windblade left them to it while she went into her bedroom. She left the Carcer Intelligence folder aside for the moment in favor of the Autobot file. Part of it was just the history of the Autobot faction, and she disregarded that. When she had more time, she would study it in more detail. She needed the more recent information. She and Starscream would be deep into Autobot territory; she needed to know who the major players were.

There was some cross-listing with the Carcer file, to her surprise. She found the right cross-listed file, and she swallowed when she read what had been reported to her mother. Carcer was funding the Autobots, at least partially. But _why?_ There was nothing in either files to describe what the point was.

She decided to hold onto it for the moment, at least until she could discover why. Chromia knocked on the doorframe and then closed the door behind her. “I still don’t understand why I can’t come with you.”

Windblade looked at her affectionately. “Because you are known to travel with me. With just me and Starscream, we are a young couple traveling home to visit a sick parent. With the two of us and you, it’s far more suspicious, and my dear bear, you stick out. Your accent is too thick and you have no patience for Cybertron.”

“I don’t like it,” Chromia grumbled.

“I know, my dear.” Windblade put away the documents. “I’m putting you in charge of these. They’re very sensitive, and I need no one to see them until I have reviewed them. I also need you to discover how much I can trust Aileron while I’m gone. Is that all right?”

Chromia thought it over, then nodded. “Is there anything else I should be aware of?”

“Not at the moment,” Windblade said. At that, they heard Aileron opening the main door and greeting Starscream, and Windblade pressed the files into Chromia’s hands. “I have to go. Keep these safe.”

Chromia kissed Windblade’s forehead. “Always.”

—

The crew of the Star Sail the Mistress of Flame had ordered had been rousted from a well-deserved leave and were grumpy about the two lordly personages they had to take across the Stellar Ocean in the height of winter. Their Star Sail, Windblade heard them muttering, had been meant for coastal trips, not for trips across deep ocean.

There was nothing she could do to soothe those grievances except ensure that they were well-paid for their pains. Their crew was four short, the other four having taken advantage of their leave to visit their families further inland and could not make it. Or had chosen not to, Windblade refused to decide between either option.

Starscream wasn’t impressed by the Star Sail—the Star Sails were designed to be light ships in the water with tall masts for maximum surface area of the thicker-than-usual sails. He wouldn’t be impressed with it until they got it up and going. That was fine.

His nose was in the air about the plain one-room cabin as well, and his lips curled at the curved, small containers just big enough for one person. There were two such containers, with straps and hooks for cargo near the door of the cabin. “What is this?”

“The witches who work the Star Sail have been modified to sail it,” Windblade said. “They do not get sick, their stamina is more enduring than a normal witch, and their power reserves are huge. Typically, their passengers have not had the same modifications. These containers,” she gestured to them, “keep us safe and from getting sick. They have a powerful sleep spell in them, to keep us immobile. When the ship gets going, it moves quickly over water, but the ship is so light that any lurching could throw it off course.”

Starscream turned to face her. “I think you should explain how this works.”

It would have been too complicated to explain just how much magic went into a Star Sail, so she went with the easier explanation—that there were two witches who pushed the water aside, and they were complemented by the other two, who pushed air to fill the sail. The combination of the two types of magic made it so that the ship traveled on top of the water rather than through it. It was why the ship was so fragile to sudden movements. “And we’re four witches short, unfortunately,” Windblade concluded. “This means we’ll have to stop halfway to give our witches time to rest.” She started to pull off the more uncomfortable pieces of clothing to place in the smaller cargo container. “As soon as we get ourselves locked in, we’ll be on our way.”

Starscream closed his mouth and started to take off his boots and coat. She hadn’t meant to be so sharp, but she was angry with almost everyone at the moment. Hopefully, the enchanted sleep would help in calming some of that.

Once the lids were locked in place, Windblade breathed and waited for the sleeping spells to take effect. She was tired, she had been running on too little sleep for the past two days as she worked on travel arrangements and packing details. That night’s revelations had overwhelmed her and drained what little emotional strength remained.

She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, but her temper wasn’t so easily ignored. It burned with the knowledge that Starscream was within arm’s reach, the mastermind of the whole plot. If he had just _asked_ her—

She shied away from that thought to focus on the private manipulations, which only fed her resentment and anger further. He had known about these plans, he had orchestrated them, and they had slept together. She hadn’t known, but he did, and sex, despite Hot Shot’s cruel commentary, was something she did not engage in simply because she needed to scratch an itch. Sex was, was _intimate_. It was a signifier of affection that couldn’t find a better method of sharing. She had shared her private self with him, while he was planning this—!

It gave her a bad taste in her mouth as she remembered, and she forced her thoughts away to happier couplings. When Moonracer had been teaching her how to swim, Windblade had nearly drowned once when the current swept her out. Moonracer had come to her rescue, and Windblade had been so grateful that she spontaneously had kissed her. There had been a seed of attraction between them, partly because Windblade had never seen a culture that wore as little as the Navitans did. Their climate and location by the ocean explained it, and she saw that their dress was not sexual, but Windblade had been embarrassed to wear even the ‘modest’ (by Navitan standards) sarong. She had been soothed by Moonracer’s friendship.

After she had kissed Moonracer, she had discovered that Moonracer was desperately in love with Override, and vice versa, but they had lacked a catalyst. Windblade had never intended to get between them, but as it turned out, they were all right with her between them—at least for a bit. It was the first time sex had been easy, and it healed her.

Buoyed by the memories of happier times, Windblade drifted off finally to dreams of turquoise water and splashing dolphins.

When Windblade woke up, still thinking of whales, at first she thought it was a remnant of her dreams, but as her head cleared and she felt the stillness of the Star Sail, she realized she was feeling a presence. Well, multiple presences.

Windblade scrambled out of the container and up to the deck, where the witches were resting their eyes. At least a day had passed, because starlight reflected on the rippling waves, and Windblade could feel _them_. They were just on the edges of her range and moving out of it, but with an effort, Windblade released her shields to allow her magic to creep over the ship ( _ten souls aboard, counting herself and Starscream_ ) and over the waves. Darts of awareness passed under her magic—fish, she supposed. Then her magic reached them, and she felt them become aware of her. The direction of their pod shifted towards the boat, and Windblade, shivering, allowed her magic to remain on top of the water. It guided them to her, and with a rush of excitement, she saw a tall black fin break the surface.

One fin became five, with smaller curved fins coming up in between. She lost count at twelve. It must be the resident group of the Northern Stellar Ocean. There were two that lived in the ocean channel between Cybertron and Caminus, but one preferred the rocky crags of Caminus to the smoother shores of Cybertron.

“What are they?” Starscream spoke in her ear.

She didn’t look at him as they approached, with one of the carriers lifting her rostrum out of the water to chirp at Windblade. “Shadow whales,” she said happily.

He was so close to her she was aware when he blinked. “Shadow whales?”

“They hold a special place in Camien lore,” she explained. “They’re named that because when you see them in the water, they look like shadows, but their bellies are white, so they can get lost in the sunlight shining down from above. We believe they guide the souls of those lost at sea to the afterlife.”

“Nonsense.”

“We’re a people who live surrounded by water and its many moods. We have…beliefs. Shadow whales are like us—they live in families, they talk to each other, and they hunt together like we do. They also can be the epitome of the water’s capriciousness. We have stories of them rescuing people who might have drowned otherwise, but we also have stories of how ruthlessly they can hunt.” Windblade grinned at the two babies who came up for air and sprayed her with salt water as they did. “A lone shadow whale foretells a death. They don’t last very long as loners, just like us.”

“So what does it mean if there’s a group?”

She looked up at him finally, the rough edges of her frustration and anger sanded smooth by the appearance of the shadow whale group. “Good hunting.”

“Well,” Starscream said. “Let’s hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all of your commentary and comments. This chapter revealed a lot, so I would love to hear what you thought about each development. I also have a bit of a cold, so all of your comments make me feel better.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter ahoy! Also warnings for gore (descriptions of wounds, specifically), and misogyny.
> 
> I absolutely loved your comments for the last chapter, since that chapter completely upended existing power dynamics. This chapter is more exploratory than anything else, but we do get a view on how people between the two factions have been living since the war ended.

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED**

_January 10, 1037_  
  
_Cybertron_

The Camien outpost on the coast was more equipped than Starscream had realized. Upon his and Windblade’s arrival, the staff had pulled them into the embassy and supplied them with everything they would need for their cover. Officially, they were heading toward Prion, a small walled village thirty miles from Vector Sigma. It was a village of healers and two separate healing schools, and had survived the war by promising to treat anyone who came through their gates, regardless of affiliation. They had kept that promise, and by the second year of the war, both sides had considered it sacred ground. Anyone who broke that rule was executed by their own side.

With Windblade’s skill as a healer, even a non-magical one, no one would doubt her origins from Prion. They were going to visit her parents after they had married in the past spring. Windblade nodded absently as one of the staff recounted the cover they had come up with. “Disguises?” she asked. “We’re both of us fairly noticeable.”

Starscream looked at her and remembered her tattoos. He had grown so accustomed to her features that he had forgotten them.

“Right.” The staff member—who had very deliberately not given his name—rooted through the box on the table and came up with a jewelry box. When he opened it, Starscream saw two small gold half circles and a pair of thin gold earrings. “Ear cuffs and earrings,” the staff member elaborated when he saw Starscream’s looks. “It creates a glamour spell that will make you forgettable and nondescript. With your cover, you’re both prosperous enough to afford simple jewelry. No one would question it. There’s just one problem.”

“It won’t disguise his voice,” Windblade said. Both Starscream and the staff member looked at her, and she shrugged. “Glamour spells are about changing peoples’ perceptions. Eyes can lie. Ears are harder to fool.” She looked at Starscream. “Part of your cover is that you fought in the war.”

“Everyone fought in the war.”

“Exactly. So you sustained an injury that made it difficult to talk.” Windblade smirked. “That will make this enjoyable.”

Under the table, Starscream kicked her shin. She ignored him. “What about clothing? It will get cold in the North.”

In the heavy box, the staff member brought out two heavy fur-lined coats, with wool shirts and pants. Gloves, hats, and boots completed the outfit. “There are two sets of clothes for both of you,” the staff member informed them, “and we have a full set of camping gear for you. Once you hit the River Sigma, inns will be scarce.”

“We might not want to stay in inns all the way in any case,” Starscream said. “Gossip flows there like any river. A couple heading _toward_ an army? People are going to wonder why.” He looked to Windblade. “Once we hit the inner forest, we shouldn’t seek out other people at all. We’d run into fleeing people and they would mark us as unusual. That’s the last thing we want.”

“We have no good maps of that forest,” the staff member apologized. “Something about the forest defies mapping.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Starscream said.

“Why?” Windblade asked.

Starscream tapped his temple. “I know where it is. We don’t need a map.”

Windblade stared at him. “Since when?”

“I went there once.”

“ _What?_ And you didn’t think to mention this before?”

“It wasn’t relevant, and isn’t now.” Starscream gave a warning look at the staff member, and Windblade’s jaw set.

“You don’t get to decide what is and isn’t relevant—.”

“Is that everything?” Starscream interrupted her. “Is there anything else we require?”

The staff member placed a fat purse on the table. “Mixed silver and copper, and we want repaying, my lord. We’ve already sent the invoice to Iacon.”

“You’ll get paid,” Starscream dismissed. “And horses?”

“Camien mountain ponies. They’re bred for endurance and survival in the cold, but they’re not the fastest.” The staff member inclined his head. “Included in their tack are wraps for their hooves when you get to ice.”

“I know how to do that,” Windblade said with an angry look at Starscream. “Did you include hunting tools?”

“Of course.”

“The horses are saddled and ready for you as soon as you change. I suggest you get moving quickly. Daylight fades fast during this time.” The staff member bowed and exited the room, and Windblade started to pull off her overdress. Starscream followed her cue, and in minutes they had removed anything that identified them as anything approaching royal and pulled on the rough wool clothes. Windblade removed her gold stud earrings for the hoops, and Starscream fastened the cuffs on the top of the shell of his ears.

While Windblade redid her hair from the severely pinned style, Starscream found his knife and took it to his shoulder-length locks. Windblade’s hands paused in her braids as she looked at him. “What are you doing?”

“As soldiers, we kept our hair cut short,” Starscream said as he removed handfuls of curls and put them in the waste bin. “Even now, veterans keep their hair short. I grew it out because Vosian nobles kept their hair long.” He glanced at her as she resumed braiding her hair. “Hair grows back.”

She decided to ignore him and took plain black pins to put her hair in place. On top of that went a fleece cap, snug over her ears. Starscream’s own cap was drawn down enough to hide the glint of gold on his ears. 

When they were finished, they looked like prosperous enough healers—or Windblade as the healer, and Starscream as a jack-of-all-trades. Traveling healers were welcomed in the back of beyond; they typically stayed for a season or two, strengthening the village’s children and teaching midwives better methods for difficult births. While the season was an odd time to be traveling, their cover story of visiting Windblade’s terminal father would explain that.

He hoped, in any case. Windblade’s anger with him hummed in the space between them, and if she showed that when they needed to be believable, that would be difficult to explain away. “I hope you can put away your anger while we’re traveling.”

“It will be no problem,” Windblade said through her teeth.

“Windblade—.”

“No,” she said. “We have a role to fulfill. It is necessary. We will discuss this in full detail when we return to Iacon.” Her blue eyes, still blue through the glamour, were icy. “Rest assured, my lord, we _will_ be discussing it.”

He nodded. That was as good as they were going to get.

—

Using Starscream’s directions, they end up in a small town on the very edge of the Sigma forest by nightfall. There was a name, but Starscream introduced it to her as ‘Sigma’s armpit’ and she couldn’t change it mentally.

“Only one night here,” Starscream cautioned as they dismounted. Grooms were coming forward for their ponies, but Windblade’s pony was quick to bite when she felt threatened, so Windblade waved them off to lead her mount into the stable herself. “This place is popular with traveling Autobots, and I don’t want to rely on the glamour more than we have to.”

She wasn’t used to seeing Starscream the strategist, but it was a role he slipped into with ease. He still walked around with his chin held so high someone could be excused for wanting to punch him, but in this role, she was more comfortable with him than she had been. “I understand what you’re saying,” she said quietly as they both hitched their ponies in a stall, “but my healer’s insignia might make that difficult.”

The issue with the insignia had come about as part of the Prion negotiations. Healers weren’t taken prison or tortured as long as they were willing to treat everyone. Wearing the Red Cross was a sign of that commitment. Rumors circulated that it was the Autobots who had come up with that and that the Decepticons had accepted it, but Windblade didn’t care about the origins.

Starscream pursed his lips. “This place _is_ popular,” he argued softly, “they might not need you.”

“We’ll see,” Windblade replied as she slung her two bags onto her back. They left the stable to find the main desk where the innkeeper was balancing the books, and Starscream hung back to let Windblade talk. “One night, please.”

The innkeeper—one of those dyed-in-the-wool Autobots who still wore the brand—glanced up from the financial books. “How many rooms?”

“One,” Windblade said as she flushed. She was a better actress than he gave her credit for; the insinuation that she and Starscream _weren’t_ together was enough to make her cover character indignant. “My husband likes to keep a close eye on me.”

The innkeeper’s gaze wandered over to Starscream and back to Windblade. Starscream tensed slightly; the Camien glamour charms were one thing, but no one survived the war without being able to detect magics of any kind. “You a healer?”

Windblade nodded. “Yes. We’re heading to Prion.”

“Good luck with that,” the innkeeper grunted.

Windblade blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You haven’t heard?” The innkeeper rolled his eyes and stood up to write out an invoice. “The whole place burned to the ground about a month ago. They’re still finding bodies. Rumor is that it was the Decepticons who burned the place.”

Starscream took that with a grain of salt. There were plenty of organizations that were capable of that kind of massacre, but very few were stupid enough to burn down a village that would treat everyone. Unless that was the point—to keep them from treating others.

Windblade turned to Starscream, eyes glinting with tears. Oh, she _was_ good. “My father? Oh sweet—Primus, what if my father was part of the victims?”

“Your father?” The innkeeper’s manner changed from someone passing on gossip to someone capable of empathy. “Oh, Primus, I’m sorry.”

Windblade turned back to him and sniffed. Starscream passed her a handkerchief as she wiped her eyes. “He was ill,” she said, “my mother wrote me. It was dated a month and a half ago, but we were too far south to make good time.” She straightened her shoulders. “But we can still help. My husband, he’s a carpenter and assists me on my more difficult cases. We can help rebuild.”

The innkeeper nodded. “You won’t be able to do much until spring,” he warned as Windblade passed two silvers and a copper over for their room. The cost included dinner and breakfast, at least, and Starscream could smell whatever was cooking in the dining room. “But I’m sure they’ll have room for two more.”

Windblade took the receipt from him and stuck it in her bag. “Thank you,” she said as she tipped him another copper—for the gossip, Starscream realized.

“Dinner’s served until ten tonight,” the innkeeper informed them. “Breakfast starts at dawn and goes until nine in the morning.”

Windblade nodded and with the key, led Starscream out of the common area to the stairs leading up to the rooms. Once they were in Room #9, Starscream locked the door and flicked a privacy spell around the place. “What does this mean for our cover if Prion is destroyed?” Windblade demanded quietly as she put her bags down on the sideboard.

Starscream had left his bags down near the door and was examining the bed. “The timing is strange.”

“What do you mean?” Windblade asked as she pulled off her overcoat. The riding clothes they had been provided with had full breeches, and Windblade’s rippled like a skirt as she started to pace.

“That Prion is burned to the ground just as the Autobot army starts marching again?” Starscream shrugged. “Could be a coincidence, might not be. That’s not the point of our trip, though. We’ll keep the Prion cover, I think, though. Rebuilding is going to take a while, especially if they lost the library. You were trained there, so you could help the librarians and archivists.” He eyed her. “My cover didn’t say anything about me being a carpenter.”

“Your hands are gloved,” she said patiently, “no one can see the lack of calluses and usually healers marry other healers or other people in service. Go with it.”

Starscream grunted as he laid down on the bed. “Bring dinner up, would you?”

Windblade sketched a bow. “Your wish is my command, my lord.”

The privacy spell rippled when she exited the room, but Starscream kept it in place as he closed his eyes. He had forgotten how much he hated all day rides, and his thighs were in agony. Maybe Windblade could give him some kind of salve.

Downstairs, the crowd in the dining room was growing. Good inns tended to be taverns as well, and Windblade needed a break from Starscream’s presence. She sat down at a table in the corner and ordered the daily soup with bread and mead, and she waited.

In the center of the seating area, a group of people all wearing the Autobot sigil were drinking from pints and swapping war stories. This appeared to be the nightly entertainment, because they were completing each other’s sentences and poking at the stories. “You fought _how_ many ‘Cons again? Last week it was twenty and tonight it’s thirty?!”

The soup, when it came, was a thick stew of what smelled like venison, with chunks of potatoes and turnips. Greasy film held the whole thing together, and Windblade ignored her instinctive distaste and staredt eating. Once she got past the grease, the stew itself wasn’t too bad, and as she ate, she kept her ears open for more gossip.

Windblade started when a young adult sat across the table from her. They had dark hair pinned up, and Windblade looked at them. “Can I help you?”

“You’re a healer, yes?”

Windblade nodded, and the person looked like they were about to cry. “I need some help,” they gasped out. “My son—his arm is injured, and it smells like death. He had cut it a week ago when he was carving, and I took him to our local healer, and Master Scalpel sewed it up all right, but he’s only gotten worse and I’m afraid!”

Windblade reached out to grasp their hand. “I’m going to need your name,” she said gently.

“Q-Quickshot,” they said with a stifled sob. “Mistress Quickshot. I was a seamstress for the Autobots during the war, and my husband and me, we didn’t use any anti-contraception charms, so along comes my son, and—.”

“Mistress Quickshot,” Windblade intervened when the woman appeared ready to utterly dissolve in tears. “I will need my medical bag and my husband,” if the injury was what it sounded like, Windblade wouldn’t be able to do anything for the child but Starscream might, “so if you can give me ten minutes, I will be back here and you can take me to your son.”

Quickshot gulped and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Thank you.”

“Just a moment,” Windblade promised. “I will be back.”

Upstairs, Starscream appeared to be asleep, but he snapped to alertness when she tugged on his ankle. “I need you.”

“In what way?” he stretched, and she rolled her eyes.

“Do you remember what we did with the ghost cat to save her paw?”

“Hard to forget,” he muttered. “Why does it matter now?”

“I will need you to do that again, only with a child.” Windblade collected her medical kit and turned to him, her chin jutting out in a challenge. “Will that be a problem?”

“Suppose not,” Starscream said in his best long-suffering manner. As he followed Windblade, he laid a few more security spells on their room. The last thing they needed was for their innkeeper to get curious about the contents of their bags. Nothing would tip him off, of course, but it was the appearance of the thing.

Downstairs, Mistress Quickshot was still waiting, and Windblade nodded to her. “Mistress, this is my husband, Cygnium. He served in the war, and unfortunately sustained an injury to his throat that impaired his ability to speak.”

Mistress Quickshot bobbed her head. “Charmed. Mistress, I, er, never got _your_ name.”

Windblade flushed. “Oh, my apologies. I am Sturmazia. Your son, Mistress?”

“Yes, yes.” The village square was made up of icy mud, and Windblade gritted her teeth when her boots sank into the slush. Her boots were deceptively well-made, but that didn’t mean she liked walking in slush up to her ankles. Mistress Quickshot led them across the square and down a well-lit corridor. Her home was the building at the end, but it resembled a shed more than anything else. Windblade glanced at Starscream—something about this didn’t seem right.

“Er, Mistress,” Windblade asked delicately, “do you have a partner, or is it you and your son?”

“My husband was summoned to the Autobot army a month ago,” Mistress Quickshot answered. “He and a few others were supposed to work on our home, but,” her face crumpled, and Windblade filed that away.

The shed had two rooms—a living area with kitchen, and the other room were sleeping quarters. The boy was lying on the pallet in the center of the floor, and even in the bad lighting, Windblade could see the streaks of green traveling up his arm. It hadn’t reached his shoulder yet, thank Solus, but it was getting close.

“Mistress, if you could bring me a light from the fire, I could light a few candles,” Windblade requested. She always kept a few candles in her kit, good ones that threw off steady light. Mistress Quickshot disappeared, and Windblade knelt to unwrap the bandages around the boy’s lower arm.

Starscream retched at the scent of decay that poured from the open wound. Windblade frowned, too intent on her patient to notice the stench. It was a large wound with ragged edges, and the stitches were poorly done. From her kit, she drew out a pair of waxed gloves, and Mistress Quickshot returned to the room, Starscream lit the candles with a hand over his nose.

“Can you fix him?” Mistress Quickshot asked anxiously.

“Mistress,” Windblade said slowly, “was your son mauled or attacked?” Carefully, she turned the boy’s arm in the light and noticed matter in the wound—it almost looked like leaves. She pulled one remnant out of the wound and sniffed it, but the scent of decay overpowered the leaf’s natural scent. When she rolled the leaf between her fingers, however, that gave her a better idea.

Bay leaves. Typically used to speed the healing and to detoxify the skin. However, to be used like this, they would need to be ground down to create a paste. The whole leaf would not be applied, because bay leaves had sharp edges and could further a wound’s margins. Whoever dressed this wound knew just enough to be dangerous, and when the leaves, pressed against the feverish skin and tearing it every time the child moved, inevitably rotted, they carried that rot into the open wound.

This child’s infection could have been prevented. Windblade’s anger stirred, but she put it aside. That wasn’t necessary at this moment.

“He had come home from playing in the woods with it,” Mistress Quickshot said. “He said they had been playing knights and got out of hand.” Their eyes met, and Windblade read the truth there. A wound of this size and depth would not have been an accident, but clearly the child feared whoever gave it to him.

Behind her, Starscream stirred.

“I think we might be able to stabilize him,” Windblade said carefully. She mustn’t promise results she wasn’t certain she could deliver. “But if you could grant us some privacy—this will be ugly, and messy.”

“Bringing him into this world was ugly and messy too,” Mistress Quickshot reminded her.

Windblade found a smile from somewhere. “I understand, Mistress, but I plan on having him fall asleep before I go to work. I will work better if I don’t have to look for you as well.”

Mistress Quickshot swallowed, and then she knelt next to her son. “I’ll be in the other room,” she promised him with a quick kiss to his forehead. “Just the other room.”

Once she shut the door behind her, Starscream put down a security spell so he could speak to her. Windblade stroked the child’s forehead. “I’m going to help you sleep now, all right?” The boy’s eyes were wide and terrified, and Windblade gave him a smile. “You will wake up, I promise, and we’re going to do our best to ensure you wake up with a healthy arm, but trust me, you won’t want to be awake for what happens next. Do I have your permission?”

The child clenched his eyes shut and nodded, and Windblade pulled sleep over him as gently as a blanket. Once he was fully lost to his dreams, Windblade deepened the sleep until he wouldn’t wake during the healing.

“What do you want me to do?” Starscream demanded as Windblade found the empty pot from the corner. Scarlet magic sank into the chamberpot until the blackened bucket gleamed under the tarnish.

He watched in some confusion as she placed the pot near the edge of the bed and then went hunting for the small stool she had seen when they had entered the room. After she found it, she placed it near the pot and gestured for him to sit on it. It was difficult—the stool had not been meant for someone as tall as he was—but he finally sat down, his legs folded awkwardly. Windblade passed him a waxed face mask and gloves before she put on her own. She pulled out small bottles from her medical kit, including a bottle of brandy. Starscream’s nose twitched as she uncapped the small, rounded bottle and poured some onto a linen cloth.

She cleaned the reddened, puffy wound as best she could, before she took her sterilized silver knife and removed the stitches. Blood oozed from the cut, but the wound had scabbed over under the original stitches. “It’s going to smell bad,” she warned as she poured another second’s worth of brandy over the silver knife. “I have to reopen the wound, and pus is going to come out.”

Starscream breathes in through his mouth. “Then what?”

“The infection should be bound to blood and tissue,” Windblade coached as she knelt on Starscream’s left side and angled the child’s arm so that the liquid infection would splash into the pot on the floor. “If you can grasp the infection and drag it to the cut, it should seep out.”

“What happens if the child bleeds out?”

“I can stabilize him and keep that from happening,” Windblade assured him. “But I can’t root out the infection, and I think you might be able to.”

Starscream nodded, and Windblade slashed open the cut. Just as she said, the stench that came from the open wound caused bile to rise up in his throat, but he swallowed frantically and leaned forward to catch what was dripping from the child’s arm. It was a mix of blood and pus, just as she had said, but he remembered why they were there and he spread his magic through the child’s arm to find the infection.

It wasn’t hard. It seemed almost like there was more infection than healthy tissue, but he had to try. He pulled on the lines of infection with his magic, and the infection followed after. Starscream wasn’t looking, but the liquid coming out of the wound sounded thicker than it had been. It made more sense to pull back the infection from the upper part of the arm first, where it was uncomfortably close to the arteries.

Once it was clear, he went to work on the other half of the arm. Windblade’s magic seeped into the upper arm, but he couldn’t pay attention to her. It was distracting, and if he wanted this child to be able to use his hand, he needed to concentrate.

He was tired long before he was finished. He wasn’t used to using his magic in this way, and he nearly pulled out from the child’s arm in an effort to rest, but then he glanced at Windblade, whose magic was quite literally holding the life to the boy, and in a burst of resentment at her stamina, he removed the last knot of infection and the smaller bits still floating around in the child’s bloodstream.

As he detached, he and Windblade switched places on the stool so that she could urge growth in the muscles that had been nearly ruined by the infection. Now that Starscream was done, he was repulsed by the smell emanating from the chamberpot and struggled to keep his heaves in check.

“That’s as much as I can do,” Windblade rasped. “He’ll be sore and achy for at least a week, but if he exercises his arm and wrist, he should be able to regain full use of his arm by the end of the year.” She looked up at him. “Can you take care of this?” she gestured to the pot.

He scowled. “Why _me_?”

The look she gave him would have a made a lesser person guilty. “That pot will contaminate everything it touches. You can reduce its power. I really shouldn’t have to say this.”

The hint of temper from Windblade just sharpened his irritation. “Oh, forgive me for not having your training or _brilliant_ insights,” he grumbled.

Windblade sighed but said nothing else. As she removed her suture kit from her medical kit, Starscream, lacking anything else to do, took the pot and exited the shed. Once he was gone, Windblade took a deep breath. She understood why he was irritated—trainee healers tended to be overstimulated and exhausted after their first healing, and Starscream was no different. She just wished he would think about _why_ he felt that way.

The cut was jagged, and Windblade shook her head as she started to stitch it up. The boy had probably tangled with a dog, which might not have helped prevent the infection that took root. It would scar, and nothing in her craft would prevent it. If the village healer had been better—

Mistress Quickshot opened the door a crack. “Mistress Sturmazia? May I enter now?”

Windblade gave her a gentle smile. “Yes, the cleaning aspect is done. I’m just stitching up the wound again.”

“He’s so rough and tumble,” Mistress Quickshot admitted with embarrassment. “When his father’s around, it’s easier to keep an eye on him, since he can’t stand to be in my shop. While I’m working, it’s hard to keep track of him.”

Windblade sensed the apology. “I don’t have children of my own, Mistress. My husband and I have not yet been so blessed by S—Primus, but I have minded more than a few during my training. When children wish to adventure and explore, if they are determined enough, they can slip any minder. This injury, had it been properly tended to, would never have threatened his life.”

“Master Scalpel was very good once,” Mistress Quickshot said after a moment. “But his expertise came from working as a battlefield medic, and the terrors don’t stay with the battlefield. When he returned home, he found that a nip of drink could keep the terrors away. Then they came anyway, and—.”

“Now he’s drunk more often than not?” Windblade fixed her eyes to her sutures. “Have you reported this to the village chief?”

“It’s well-known,” Mistress Quickshot said quickly. “But Master Scalpel has friends.”

Windblade gave the nervous seamstress a reassuring smile. “Your son will heal,” she said. “He will be weak for some time, however. The infection was in the muscles of his arm. He will need to work them back up to strength, but he should stop when it hurts. Otherwise he puts himself at greater risk.” Windblade tied off the last of the fifteen sutures and put her suture away. She started to roll the child’s arm in bandages neatly and efficiently. “His bandages should be changed daily, and if he can, I recommend not getting water into the stitches. His arm will smell badly by the end of the week, but once you remove the sutures he will be able to bathe again.” Windblade offered the roll of bandages to Mistress Quickshot, who took them. “Before I go, can you direct me to Master Scalpel?”

“Mistress, he has _friends_ ,” Mistress Quickshot emphasized.

Windblade turned steely. “So do I, Mistress. Please.”

Mistress Quickshot wavered and gave in. As Windblade packed up, Mistress Quickshot reeled off directions. Once Windblade had everything in her kit she needed, she saluted Mistress Quickshot and went to find Scalpel.

Scalpel lived on the eastern side of the village, where the village met the tree line. The temperature had dropped significantly as the sun went down, and Windblade’s breath steamed in front of her as she made her way to the larger dwelling. It made sense that he would make his surgery part of his home, she decided, but where was his herb garden? The hitching post for horses? It was not the house she would expect of a healer who tended to a large village.

Steeling her courage and her anger, she knocked on the door. She heard shuffling behind the door, but when the door didn’t open, she knocked again, harder. Finally, the door was thrown open. “M’here,” a draped figure in the doorway slurred. “Whatchu need?”

Windblade eyed the draped figure, reeking of alcohol, with trepidation. “You are the healer Scalpel?”

“Who wants to know?”

Windblade rolled her eyes and flicked her fingers. One of the handiest tricks she had ever learned was expediting the inebriation process. The only side effects were a sudden headache and an onset of nasty body odor, but she doubted the drunkard would notice. “You are the healer Scalpel?” she repeated.

Scalpel winced. “The hell did you do?”

Windblade held onto her patience. “I think you know what I did—if you’re any kind of healer.”

Windblade counted two heartbeats, and then the healer swung at her. She stepped out of range, and Scalpel caught himself before he fell off the stoop onto the hard-packed ice and dirt. “What do you want, wench?”

Windblade’s lips thinned at the implied insult. “A week ago, you treated a child who was mauled by sewing up the gash haphazardly and did not put the proper poultice on it. You never changed his dressing, and when rot set in, he nearly lost the arm and his life. Had you paid better attention and used better sutures, this would never have happened.”

“You, a _nurse_ , are criticizing my technique?”

“When I’m the nurse who had to fix your mistakes,” she snapped. “That gives me every right.” She set her shoulders. “I’m warning you, as one healer to another, that you are no longer safe for your patients and I mean to inform the village chief of that fact in the morning. That boy could have died under your care.”

“I see,” Scalpel said. “Is there anything else?”

Windblade lifted her chin. “No, that was all.” She turned around and left, hyperaware of Scalpel’s stare on her back. She wasn’t sure if he would throw something at her but she wanted to be alert for it. He left her alone, and she went back to the inn. Starscream wasn’t back yet, so she threw herself onto the bed. Tiredness dragged at her, until she let it drag her into unconsciousness.

She was rudely awoken by Starscream pushing at her foot. She rolled onto her back to look up at him through her sleepy daze. “What’s going on?”

“You have many faults,” he remarked as he poured her a cup of what smelled like too-strong tea, “but I hadn’t thought stupidity was one of them.”

“What?” she managed.

“You are acting _stupid_.” Starscream’s temper broke entirely. “Why did you tell that damn healer you were reporting him?!”

“It was the right thing to do,” she protested as she sat up. Her hair was a mess, and she reached up in an effort to clear it up. “He was a healer, once.”

“What you did,” Starscream said, in an attempt to retrieve his calm, “was tip him off. Do you wonder why a village this remote has no problem with bandits?”

Windblade frowned, her brain still too muddled to follow along completely. “I didn’t think of bandits at all.”

“That’s because,” Starscream said in that overly-patient manner, “that healer that you tipped off plies his trade with the local bandits in exchange for those bandits leaving this armpit alone.”

“Oh,” Windblade said faintly. Then, “How did you discover this?”

“After disposing of that foul liquid, I went to speak with the village chief. Carefully. I got the whole story.”

Windblade scowled at him. “Then why are you scolding me for planning to do the same thing?!”

“I’m not scolding you for the plan to inform the chief. I’m scolding you for _telling_ that piece of waste your plan.” Starscream bent over the clothing rack to toss her her coat. “We have to leave.”

“Now?” Windblade asked, still fuzzy from not enough sleep.

“If we want to be alive long enough to see the dawn, yes, _now_.”

Windblade struggled into the heavy wool coat as Starscream slipped his on. She took her saddlebags from him and they eased out of the room and down the servants’ stairs. They were halfway down the stairs when Starscream halted with his finger to his lips. She didn’t need the warning—she could hear the thudding footsteps from the public stair as well as he could. They tiptoed down the remaining stairs and then passed through the dark, cold kitchen out to the stable.

The groom on duty for the night started to rise when she and Starscream were seen, but she sent them to sleep with a quick gesture. While Starscream started to ready his pony, Windblade tucked a copper piece into the groom’s pocket and went to her mount. “We have to be quiet,” she warned her pony. “Please.”

Her pony lipped her palm and followed after her agreeably. She and Starscream led their mounts through the long stable, but when Windblade would have taken the exit to get to the main road, Starscream took the lead and passed it. “We want the tree line,” he hissed at her as he passed. “Trust me.”

Trust goes both ways, she retorted mentally, but did as he said. They walked all the way to the end of the stable, but when Windblade would have continued, he grabbed her arm. He pointed up to the windows, and she spotted a light. She was not good at the scouting. At least Starscream was.

The light disappeared from the window, and Starscream waited half a minute, and then he led her to the dark trees. The ponies were good-natured about the whole thing, and Windblade tucked away a mental note to pay for them from the embassy. She needed a mount that was calm and could deal with her eccentricities.

Once they were ensconced in the trees, they mounted up and hurried the horses along. The sun was starting to rise, thin rays of light struggling to pierce the thick foliage that kept the forest floor free from snow. They trotted along, the ponies comfortable with the broken ground. Windblade was just starting to think that they might have missed the local bandits when there was a shout a few miles away, and when she looked across the way, she saw five or six, mounted on thin horses that started toward them.

Without needing to speak, she and Starscream kicked their ponies to a gallop. Normally, mountain ponies against horses wouldn’t be much of a race, but with the rough terrain of forest ground, it was a more equal race. Still, they would be caught up eventually, and then they would be in trouble.

“What are we going to do?” she called. “They’ll flank us.”

“There’s a part of this that’s—oh, don’t worry,” Starscream said in frustration. “Just ride, you’ll know it when you pass it.”

That was a bad explanation, but she didn’t have the breath or time to argue it. The small group that was pursuing them was getting closer, close enough for Windblade to hear them shouting to each other about how to box them in against the river. Her panic started to rise; there was no telling what would happen to either of them if they were cut off by the bandits, and if they killed the bandits, they would have to kill all of them and deal with the bodies to ensure that the bandits wouldn’t bother them again.

Windblade hadn’t meant to get them into trouble, and she didn’t want to have see anyone killed to cover her mistake.

The river they were following turned to the left, and they followed the curve. The river widened past the curve, and the trees became wider. To Windblade’s consternation, she felt a crossbow bolt fly over her shoulder, narrowly missing her coat. She looked behind her to see one of the riders reload a crossbow while another took aim.

_Shit_.

That bolt missed both of them, but the third passed by her with a whistle to hit Starscream’s shoulder. Windblade bit down on a scream and slowed down, but Starscream waved her on. “I’ll be fine,” he grunted at her.

“But it could jostle the wound—.”

“ _Not now_.”

Windblade’s worry gnawed at her as they followed another curve of the river. Starscream’s shoulder, marked with the crossbow bolt fletchings, followed the movement of his pony, potentially widening the wound with every gallop. He needed to be treated, and soon, to prevent blood loss, rot, the arrowhead fracturing and getting lodged somewhere…

Even through the cloud of concern, she felt it when they passed a line of trees and Starscream twisted in the saddle— _he twisted in the saddle!_ —to send a dart of magic to the trees. A barrier appeared, glinting with Starscream's fallow magic as it raced across the barrier, no doubt putting the rest of it up. The horses stopped at the barrier and reared, causing the bandits riding them to curse and strike at their mounts, but the horses would not go any further.

In fact, one of them had the bright idea—and the others soon followed—to run _away_ from the barrier. Starscream turned to her, and the concern narrowed into an internal shriek ( _stop moving!_ ) as he said, “Fear magic. Horses are more susceptible than people.”

He was sweating from the pain, and his skin had a grey undertone that worried her. She reached for him, but he shook his head. “We need to be a bit further along before those lawbreakers come back to try the barrier for themselves.”

“Stop using your muscles,” she snapped in response. “You’re just making it worse.”

His teeth flashed in a grin. “Worried, Princess?”

“What happens if you die, _my lord_?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” he assured her, “I’ve survived _much_ worse than this.” He spurred his pony, and Windblade had no choice but to follow.

—

The raiders fell back as their horses panicked, and in the struggle to get their horses under control, Scalpel saw that the two interlopers had ridden off. They were heading into the deep woods of the Sigma forest—it wasn’t worth it to send out hunters for them. The forest would likely kill them.

Still, he hadn’t survived as long as he did by being stupid. Something about that duo didn’t sit quite right with him. They had a glimmer of a magic that he thought he should be able to recognize, and he felt that as soon as he could get his mind clear, he’d identify it.

It wasn’t until they were a few miles from town that it clicked. Glamour charms—the two had been cloaked in glamour charms. Not in military intelligence-grade glamour charms, but still. Why would two people traveling alone need glamour charms?

He whistled for the younger scout, who fell back to join him. “What is it, master?”

“Do you remember when the Wreckers rode through town a few weeks back? They were watching for the arrival of Starscream?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to ride out and meet them. Two riders came by us with glamour charms and were all imperious. Might be who they’re looking for, might not be, but I wouldn’t be an Autobot if I didn’t do my patriotic duty.”

The scout bobbed his head and cut across the clearing to head east. Scalpel turned his smirk into the icy wind. Even if those two had other reasons to be glamoured besides being political, the Wreckers had a ‘attack first, questions never’ mentality. It would serve that interfering cunt right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me things, I love them all!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for wound treatment. It gets a little gory, and there's also a mention of viscera and an eldritch creature eating them. 
> 
> I do not possess medical credentials of any kind. Please do not substitute herbal treatment for medical treatment without speaking to your doctor. 
> 
> I've put up another piece of commentary. It can be found [here](https://inkfic.tumblr.com/post/171221614622/food-communion).
> 
> Your comments--all of them--make my day. Please don't be shy. I love to hear your thoughts.

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN: ILL WINDS**

They rode for another hour, until Starscream was wavering in the saddle. The bend of the river Sigma was particularly wide, and Windblade eyed a natural clearing that surrounded that particular curve. “We stop here,” she said in her most royal tone. “Now.”

Starscream didn’t argue as they stopped their mounts. Their ponies were panting and sweat-streaked, but Windblade couldn’t tend to them yet. She dismounted first and walked over to Starscream’s left side, and as he dismounted she caught and braced him. In her arms, he was trembling and his eyes were glassy. Shock, she cursed, of _course_ he was in shock. There was a downed log that rested against a tree trunk, and she levered him downwards. Once he was seated, his trembling was even more apparent, and after a moment, she found the spare blanket in her saddlebags and covered him with it.

Then she went to work.

The ponies needed to have their tack off, and she needed the two cauldrons. She put those aside for the moment as she found the fire-crystals and the folding quad pod, and she started the fire-crystals so that when she came back with two full pots of water, the crystals would be hot enough to boil the water. The quad pod was unfolded and placed over the crystals.

She tested the water of the river and found it safe to drink, but that didn’t mean it was safe enough to put on wounds without boiling it. She filled the two pots—one large, one small—with water and waddled back to the site. The pots went onto the rod connecting the two stands of the quad pod, and then it was time to unearth her medical kit and some of the camp dishes.

Once that was done—and the pots weren’t boiling yet—she tended to the ponies. She rubbed them down and led them to the river. Food could wait a little longer, but they seemed content with water for the moment.

She checked on the pots again. The smaller one was boiling, so she poured some of the water off into a mug and the rest into a bowl, and then the larger one was boiling. Her collection of bandages, gauze pads, silk thread, her lone surgical knife and even her needle went into the larger pot, where she promptly forgot about her supplies for the moment.

In the bowl, there was less than an inch of water, which was what she needed. From her medical kit, she drew out ground lavender, calendula, and comfrey, and she used the remaining water to make a poultice. All of those herbs worked to prevent infection, and in the case of comfrey, could help to close wounds.

On a metal plate, made sterile by Windblade pushing flame across its surface, went the bandages, gauze pads, thread, surgical knife and needle. Between the still-hot plate and Windblade’s ability to control heat, the supplies were dry, and she went to look at Starscream’s wound.

The _only_ good thing about it was that the arrowhead had been through his shoulder and out. She wouldn’t have to go rooting for the damn thing and it would make removal easier. With all of his jostling of the wound, however, there was a possibility that he had hurt the muscles in his shoulder past what she could repair. At least the crossbow bolt hadn’t pierced the artery in the shoulder. If that had happened, he would have bled out before this.

There was still a chance that it had nicked the artery, but the bolt shaft was preventing the bleeder. She probed the ragged lines of the wound with her fingertips, feeling for the damage with both touch and magic. When she found the artery unhurt, she sagged for a moment in relief before the enormity of the task ahead of her sank in. She had never done this kind of surgery in the field, let alone without a healer. The area wasn’t sterile, and the bolt was wide enough that there was no doubt that there was debris in the wound. She would have to rinse it out and pull out the debris before she could stitch the wound closed, and hope that Starscream didn’t bleed out during the entire operation.

She swallowed hard, but her choice had already been made when she hadn’t fled Starscream’s side once he had been shot.

“Get on with it,” Starscream said restlessly. “I don’t like having an open wound in this environment.”

She glanced at the nearly overfull mug and made her decision. She poured some of the still-steaming water into the second mug and from the recesses of her medical kit, a stoppered bottle of the most dangerous substance she carried. She opened it and plopped two heavy drops into the second mug, and she stirred it to be sure that it dissolved. Once that was done, she replaced the bottle where it belonged and pushed the mug to Starscream’s mouth.

He didn’t drink. “What did you put in that?”

“A cordial,” she said, and then relented. He _had_ a right to know. “It’s poppy oil and honey. If I’m going to do this, I am not going to suffer your commentary on how you know healers who’ve done it better.”

“I promise to be silent,” he protested.

She rolled her eyes. “I doubt you can keep that. Besides,” she hesitated and then went on, “this is going to be agonizing. No one can remain perfectly still during an operation, and if you move at the wrong time, I could do more damage than the arrow. For the ease of my mind, I need you to be unconscious.”

He tried to intimidate her with a glare, but on this ground she stood firm. She was a healer, and he was her patient. What she said went.

When it was clear she wasn’t going to give in, he drank up the mixture, and she went to wash her hands. She had been trained by Sister Medica during her education at the Temple of Solus, and Sister Medica focused specifically on surgery. She believed that if everything that came into contact with the body was clean, then there was less of a chance of post surgical infection.

Windblade did not have a sterile gown or mask, but she pulled her hair up as far as she could and pinned the whole mass to the top of her head. Her coat came off and her sleeves were buttoned at the shoulder. The cold air bit at her skin, but she ignored it as she rubbed the soap that Sister Medica had taught her how to make into her hands and arms.

It was harder to ignore the iciness of the river, but she did it by remembering what the Sister’s strictures on surgery had been. Clean instruments, a sleeping patient, and ease of access to the wound were all necessary for the surgery to take place at all.

When she returned to the site, Starscream had given in to the soporific and was asleep. She placed one hand on his forehead and deepened his sleep so that pain would not wake him. It was a charm with a natural time-limit; she had about three hours before his pain would overtake her charm.

She eyed the coat and shirt that prevented her from seeing the wound in its entirety, and with a sigh, she cut him out of it. Once she could see the entry and exit points of the bolt, she saw with some dismay that the wound margins were red and puffy. She would have to ignore that for the moment while she removed the bolt from the wound.

Sister Medica would not have approved, but Windblade pinched the shaft right before the arrowhead and pushed flame through the fingers. The arrowhead dropped off to the ground below, and Windblade ignored it as she sealed the edges of the shaft by charring the wood. Once that was done, she carefully pulled the bolt out from behind; fletchings could cause as much damage as the arrowhead.

Now that the bolt was gone, she could focus on the wound. With the remaining warm water in the original mug, she angled the mug so that the water would go through the wound. It wouldn’t take all the debris with it, but it would rinse out the wound. Blood came with it, but that she expected and ignored. He wasn’t gushing blood; there was nothing to be worried about yet.

With her witchlight, she could see bits in the wound, and she reached for the tweezers from her medical kit. They were made specially for this kind of work, and she ran flame down the thin spokes before putting them into the wound to pull out the cloth that had been pushed into Starscream’s shoulder by the bolt.

Once she had all the large pieces, she trickled water through the wound again to be certain that even threads were gone. The wound continued to bleed, but it wasn’t life-threatening yet. She wiped up some of the blood with the gauze, and tucked it into her coat pocket.

She moved around Starscream to study the entry wound. It was more ragged than the exit, which didn’t surprise her, but it would take more sutures to close. Starscream’s back and chest were already a maze of scars, and as she started on her sutures, she made sure to make them small and neat. There was no need for Starscream to have another scar if she could help it.

Once that part of the wound was closed, Windblade left it for the moment. Once she placed the mix of comfrey, lavender, and calendula on the stitches, she would need to wash her hands again, and she didn’t want to leave another open wound while she did so.

The exit wound went more quickly than the entry, and she took a moment to breathe. She was not a surgeon, and she did not wish to _be_ a surgeon, but she thought that Sister Medica would approve of her sutures.

With the bowl in hand and gauze at the ready, she plastered the entry wound with the herbal paste before placing a pad of gauze over the paste. The paste would hold the gauze until she could wrap the shoulder. She repeated it over the exit wound, and in the immediate moment, she had the time to wash her hands again. Her lower back ached and she had the beginnings of a rather vicious headache, but she needed to finish her surgery before she could tend to herself.

She went back to Starscream and started to wrap the wound with bandages. The damage to the muscles of the shoulder wouldn’t be known until after some of it had healed, but she couldn’t think about that at the moment. Maybe they would be able to find a healer. Maybe, maybe…

Once the shoulder was wrapped, with the remains of Starscream’s shirt she modified a sling to keep him from aggravating the shoulder further. Once that was done, she tucked the blanket around him. He would be groggy when he woke up, but since they had hardly eaten—she wasn’t even sure if he had had dinner from the night before—maybe the nausea part of waking up from the cordial would not affect him.

Patient tended to, she cleaned up her mess and took the larger cauldron back to the river to clean it with sand and to fill it back up again. She had a willow bark tincture that would take care of her headache while she thought about what to do next.

Moving Starscream that day was out of the question. The cordial would make it impossible for him to ride, and she wanted at least a night’s sleep for him before he started to jostle the wound again. That meant she would need to lay out camp. Something about these woods made her uneasy, but she couldn’t perform defensive magic, nor could she ask Starscream to do it in his state. Injuries always wreaked havoc with control.

No, there was something she _could_ do. Wild places had spirits, just like cities did, and they could be appealed to with an adequate sacrifice. She would need to set traps for some of the small local wildlife in any case, and there were always byproducts that she couldn’t use.

She had a moment’s fierce desire for her hawk, but it would have been impractical. She could set traps, and she set out to do that. She needed to set them on existing game trails, and when she found one that was well-traveled, she set a few snares along it and went back to the camp site. They would need a wind-breaker for when night fell, and she was certain she had a few ready-made soup packets in her saddlebags that only needed hot water. The soup mix would ordinarily be enough, but Starscream’s color had not improved yet, and she wanted him to have some meat in an effort to help that.

She passed the next two hours by being busy. It was the only way she could keep herself from being consumed with anxiety over Starscream’s sleep, his wound, and their unsheltered location. Every time her thoughts strayed to Starscream’s prone form, she made herself go do something else.

There was something she learned during her brooding, though. Despite her lingering anger with Starscream over his manipulations, she did not want him to die. It would be a loss, but moreover, _she_ did not want to lose him.

She hated it, and nearly hated him for it. She shouldn’t feel affection for him, not after what he had done, but the affection was there. She couldn’t stand it, but she had to put it aside for the moment. Not while he had need of her.

She was returning from the snares with three rabbits when Starscream stirred. She put down the rabbits to use a smooth plate to prepare them while she kept an eye on him. His eyelids fluttered and his eyebrows furrowed, and then his eyes flew open as he gurgled. Windblade flew to his side as he rolled over and tried to vomit, but there was nothing to come up. He heaved for a good few minutes while she rubbed his back, but she was grateful that he hadn’t eaten in so long.

Finally, he stopped and turned back over. “You could’ve warned me,” he rasped.

She gave him some water. “I saved you some agony. A small price to pay.”

He rolled his eyes but took the water. After he finished the cup, he leaned his head against her arm. “Is there food?”

“There will be soon,” she promised. “But I need to prepare it first. Can you wait?”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

A shoot of affection made her run a hand over his head before she returned to her work. The rabbits needed to be skinned and butchered, and then the by-products would need to be saved. She went to work after washing her hands, and after she had diced the meat into strips, the meat went into the pot to cook and the by-products were collected on canvas. That was done, and she washed her hands again, wiped her arms with brandy, and then washed them again.

Once she was clean, she took up the rolled canvas and started for the trees. Starscream watched her go and she went looking for the right place to leave her offering.

When she came back, he was revived enough to sit upright. He watched with keen curiosity as she checked the boiling would-be stew and added the soup packets, fed the ponies, and did the last few details on the camp site. He watched as she wavered and checked the site over again to see if she missed anything.

With his good arm, he patted the packed dirt next to him. “There’s nothing you can do for the moment, and we should discuss a few things.”

Windblade’s heartbeat jumped, but she did as he said. He was shivering a little under the blanket, but she didn’t want to introduce heat to his body in case his body thought it meant that it needed a fever. “You probably saved my life, if not just my arm,” he said carelessly.

Windblade writhed internally. “It was my fault in any case.”

Starscream dismissed that. “We might have run into them anyway. If you hadn’t been called to that poor child, we might have stumbled right into their nest. Trust me, 5 is better odds than 20.”

“Perhaps…”

The logistics of how his injury had happened no longer interested Starscream. “The point is, Princess, you saved my life. Why? You could have let me die.”

Windblade frowned. “Why would I do that, my lord?”

“Oh,” Starscream drawled, “I can think of a few things. It would free you from this marriage, for starters.”

Windblade’s confusion was turning into indignation. “You must think me a person with no integrity or honor.”

“No, no,” Starscream said. “But the fact remains that you do not want this marriage.”

“I don’t want _any_ marriage,” Windblade snapped. “You are not special in that regard.”

His eyes were too intent, and it was making her uncomfortable. “The point is there, then. You could have freed yourself from an unwanted marriage by an encounter with brigands. You did your best, but you do not possess healing magic, and,” he spread both hands and then winced.

“Stop moving your injured shoulder,” Windblade told him. “And I am not so selfish to deprive Cybertron of its current, _chosen_ ruler merely because I don’t want to be married. It would not be fair or honorable to do such a thing.” Then, because she tried to keep herself honest, she added quietly, “It never crossed my mind to let you die. I have a duty.”

“You could have gone to the Autobots to plead asylum.”

“You mean one of the groups who attempted to make me a corpse in an effort to undermine you?” she asked dryly. “Yes, I can see why that would appeal.”

Starscream shifted to make himself more comfortable. “Tell me why you don’t want to be married.” In an effort to soften the command, he said, “Please.”

Windblade turned away from him, and for a long while he thought she wasn’t going to respond. She got up to stir the soup, and while her back was to him, she said, “What happens when a princess is married to a personage from another nation-state?”

He frowned. “It’s a diplomatic tie between the two states.”

“What happens to the princess, specifically?”

“She becomes a citizen of the new state through her marriage, and…ah.”

“And what happens,” Windblade said relentlessly, “if her partner were to die before there were children of the marriage?”

Starscream didn’t want to answer, but he had to. “Then she becomes a non-citizen, with no legal protections.”

She looked at him. “I have a certain amount of freedom as a Princess of Caminus. My diplomatic status is recognized. I can travel where I like for the most part, and I do not have to argue for my place in various lordly councils. Once I become a _wife_ ,” she spat the word, _“_ all of my movements must be accounted for. I have a sphere in which I am expected to rule, and I am not supposed to extend power outside of it. I won’t have the freedom to travel anymore, and anyone with the pretension of concern for my health can restrict my movements even before I carried. That is the prison you would lock me into.”

He considered her quandary as he fought the urge to scratch his shoulder. “I understand why that would be an issue,” he said finally, “but I think that you’re missing something important.”

She bared her teeth. “And what would that be?”

“Cybertron has no real social customs anymore. Society collapsed during the war, and it has yet to fully regain itself because of the trivial issue of survival. Once you and I complete this great work to bring life back into the soil, divisions of labor will ensue, but,” he shrugged one shoulder—the uninjured one—and looked up at her. “We can set new customs. There are things I would rather handle than you, just because I have more experience in those matters, but you needn’t be a caged bird unless you wish to be.”

“I want a contract,” she said, “putting in writing what you’ve said, and signed and witnessed. If you die before I have a child, I don’t want to be chattel to whomever succeeds you, either.”

“Fine,” Starscream sighed. “I’ll have Ultra Magnus draw it up.” He smirked. “According to Ravage, Ultra Magnus is perfectly happy to become my Lord High Magistrate and create a judicial system from the ground up. He has the background and integrity that people will follow him.”

“You will need law enforcement as well,” Windblade pointed out. “With division of labor, crimes will come.”

“And a system for punishing those who break it, yes, I know. Prisons don’t work well, you know.”

“In Caminus, they are sentenced to labor,” Windblade offered. “The labor is decided by the crime—we’re missing the original argument.”

Starscream looked at her. “Madam, I chose you because of your skill and talents. I am not such a fool to lock you into a silken, perfumed suite. It is going to be work, and hard work, and most nights we will not have completed the tasks we set out to perform, but if I am to have a wife, I need someone who will work as hard as I do.” He shifted again. “Besides, you bring legitimacy to my rule, too. You’re well-respected with all the countries we deal with. With you as one of the negotiators, I am expecting several trade deals.” He wagged a finger at her. “Get on that, please.”

Despite herself, Windblade was amused. “Yes, my lord,” she curtsied in the style of Eukaris, “I’ll get started on that right away from our current position in this forest.”

Starscream’s mouth twitched. “Is that soup ready yet?”

—

Prowl eyed the sorry line-up of the Wreckers he had sent to kill Starscream and capture the princess. They had returned without accomplishing either goal. At least Prime was out inspecting the perimeters and not part of this interview. It would not go well. “Well?” he inquired.

Springer stood at parade rest in front of the rest of his team. “Starscream and the princess did not go to Iacon—at least, not directly. We observed a ship come in, but it left soon after and there was no household with it. There are two people directly attached to the outpost, and they allowed two to leave the following day, but they did not appear to be either Starscream or the princess. They turned north. Our assumption was that Caminus sent messengers to look into the growing unrest in the north.”

Prowl tapped his foot once. “What made you think the duo wasn’t Starscream and the princess?”

“They did not look like them, and also, why would Starscream go north instead of west? His people need him to prepare for our incursion; the presence of a leader during conflict preparations is stabilizing to a fractured city.”

Prowl frowned. That was not an unreasonable assertion. “Why return?”

Springer met his eyes, and Springer had always angered him with that measured stare. “I felt it was necessary.”

Prowl’s eyes narrowed. He dismissed the rest of the Wreckers so that he and Springer would have the room—or tent, as it was. “ _You_ felt it was necessary?”

“There’s gossip, sir,” Springer said. “About the Prime, that he’s not the Prime we served with. I don’t find that unreasonable, not with what I was informed as I rode in to the camp. You need someone to watch your back. I’ve seen mutinies tear armies apart. I’m not going to let it happen now.”

Prowl’s lips thinned. “You show unexpected loyalty, Springer.”

“This is our last shot,” Springer replied. “To put an end to the war once and for all. Starscream may not be a Decepticon anymore, but everyone knows that the only reason he’s the so-called ‘Chosen One’ is because he killed Megatron. Had there been any other viable candidates, it would not have been him. He should not be the leader of _anything_.”

Prowl nodded once. “So you are to ensure this venture succeeds.”

Springer nodded. “Exactly. There is just one more thing, sir. One of our spies found a duo of a he and a she traveling together, cloaked in glamour spells. I discredited the idea to the men, because Starscream is not a fool, and glamour spells are hardly foolproof, but—the possibility remains that it _is_ the two of them, headed in our direction.”

“Very well.” Prowl sighed. He agreed with Springer about Starscream’s intelligence, but the war had been full of intelligent people making stupid decisions, and it was not an option to be entirely dismissed. “Springer—for your loyalty, I am grateful. Truly.”

Springer’s eyes became amused. “Of course, Prowl.”

—

The following morning, while water was boiling for tea to go with bread and honey, Windblade went to work on Starscream’s shoulder. He grumbled at the cold air, at her hands—she warmed them up for him with rolled eyes—and even at the lack of morning tea thus far, but Windblade ignored his complaints as she unwrapped the bandages.

She stopped when she saw the wound.

The wound was—gone. She was good with herbs, but a ruinous injury like that arrow wound, Starscream’s shoulder should have had an open wound for at least a few days. This was utterly beyond any of her expectations. She ran her fingertips over the stitches, amazed. “How did—.”

“Do you know why the river has the name that it does?” Starscream inquired as she found her surgical scissors and started to snip the stitches clear.

She made a face at him. “My tutors did not see the point of teaching me Cybertronian geography, alas.”

He smirked at her. “It’s fed by the spring at Vector Sigma. The water has healing powers.”

“…Oh.” She cleared her throat. “How is your shoulder feeling?”

“Stiff,” he admitted. “Your hands are—.”

She placed one palm against his shoulder and shoved heat into his skin. Under her hand, his brown skin reddened, but he sighed in relief. “Better.”

“It wasn’t entirely altruistic,” she told him. “You can help me break up camp.”

“I knew I should have done better than to trust your intentions,” he groused, but he got up willingly enough.

It took less than half an hour to pack everything away, and they were back on the road. Windblade drew her pony to be level with Starscream’s as she asked, “So you’ve been to Vector Sigma before?”

He glanced at her. “Once, with Megatron.”

She waited, but when more information was not forthcoming, she nudged her pony over so that she could politely elbow him. “It’s relevant,” she needled. “How did you get there?”

“On our way to, we got lost a few times until I thought to follow the river. This forest is—odd, and it moves around. It can and will trap people until they can’t find their way out and they starve to death.”

“Why the river?” she inquired.

“I think the magic of the river is the utter antithesis of the forest’s magic. The River Sigma loops around Vector Sigma before heading southwest—that’s how we’ll follow it to get back to Iacon. The river doesn’t move, and it’s bound by the protective magic of it being a water source. Nothing would attack us while we follow it.”

She might have been spared the offering, Windblade thought grumpily, but if the forest was as dangerous as Starscream said it was, there was no way she was taking any chances. He had only solidified her theory that wild places could be as chaotically magical as cities—and with fewer, more arcane rules. “Why did Megatron go to Vector Sigma?”

Starscream’s mouth tightened, and she felt an trickle of fear. He breathed out in a gust and said, “For him to succeed, he had to be seen as legitimate as the Senate, if not more so. Primes became Primes by going through testing at Vector Sigma, at least originally, before the Senate figured out it could merely appoint them. Megatron thought that if he went through the testing, he could be more legitimate.”

Windblade pondered that. While her understanding of Primes as a position had been rooted in the inherent spiritual power of Primus and it offended all of her sensibilities that the role _could_ be appointed, she could understand Megatron undergoing a test to be the spiritual heir of Cybertron. If he felt he had Primus on his side… “Did it work?”

“No,” Starscream said flatly. “He failed.” The twist to his mouth made it clear that the subject was closed.

They rode in silence for the rest of the day, and Windblade observed how Starscream rolled his shoulder more and more as the afternoon drew into evening. When the sun began to set, he led her to another small copse of trees near the water’s edge, and they worked together to create a camp.

Finally, Windblade couldn’t stand it anymore. “Can I work on your shoulder?”

“Please,” Starscream said, sincerely.

Sister Medica had taught her how to perform healing massage as recuperation from surgery as well, and Windblade put that knowledge to use as she called heat to her hands and started to work on his shoulder. It was one large knot, one she needed all of her strength to work on. A few times, she caught Starscream grimacing as she dug her fingers in, but he didn’t complain or try to stop her.

When she had worked on the knot as much as she could, she placed warm stones in bandages and tied them to his shoulder with orders not to move. Then she went to place traps, and Starscream stayed behind.

They were close to Vector Sigma; the water was rushing faster and it was colder, but the rapids did not allow for ice to form. It would take a killer winter to completely freeze over the river, and this one—thankfully—was not. They would reach Vector Sigma the next day, and then their trials would really begin.

Starscream had not been allowed to join Megatron into Vector Sigma. He had no idea what to expect, just half-remembered vague diary entries from old Primes about what the ceremony of testing entailed. He and Windblade weren’t even interested in _being_ tested—they just wanted some of the water. They might need to prove they were worthy, but surely that was different than being tested. He hoped.

If Megatron had failed the testing, he definitely would.

When Windblade returned, she had a pheasant. He was happy to leave the preparation up to her as he hunted down firewood; pheasant always tasted better when roasted over an open flame and seasoned with smoke. They set it up to roast and Windblade sat next to him, her warmth welcome. The forest was cold, cold enough for Starscream to feel ice crystals on his face from his breathing. “Tell me something,” he ordered her. “Anything to keep my mind off my shoulder.” The cold had only sharpened the ache in his shoulder, despite her ministrations, but if he told her that, she might insist he take some of that awful cordial again and he had no desire to.

She huffed a laugh, white steam issuing from her mouth. “Anything in particular, my lord?”

He settled more firmly against the tree, which just so happened to bring her in more contact with him. He was _cold_. “Something silly.”

“I am not a fount of silly,” she said.

He rolled his eyes and edged against her. “You were a child, weren’t you?”

She sighed and left him. He squawked a protest, but she returned with a thick wool blanket. She tucked it over the two of them, and he settled into it with a sigh of relief. “When I was young—before Hot Shot was born—I liked to chase cats. Some of the cats I chased were palace ratters and not apt to suffer being chased by a little one, but some of the pets were content to be chased as long as I didn’t yank on their tails. The only time I tried to do that, I was swiped by a pet and when I complained to my mother, she told me I had gotten off lucky. After that, I was more gentle.”

She left him in the blanket briefly to turn the roasting stick to ensure equal cooking of the pheasant before returning to him. “My mother was bemused to learn that one of the kennel-keepers was allowing me to watch them as they stayed with their laboring cats. I learned from that that most cats don’t need help to birth their kittens, but occasionally they need a spot of assistance, which is why they’re watched. I found a pregnant cat who had been on the watchlist because she had an on-again off-again stomach condition, but she had managed to escape her keepers.”

She smiled at him as he tucked his arm around her. “She got tired around kitten number three, and by four she was actively in a bad way. She had one more kitten, but she was so exhausted that she fell asleep, or so I thought at the time. I waited for her to wake up and start licking her kittens, but when she didn’t, I was worried so I picked her up and wanted her to be all right, to be well. When I did that, she woke up with a start, like she had never been pregnant, and she started licking her kittens and getting them in order. Now that I’m older, I know that she died briefly before I brought her back. The life hadn’t fully left her yet, which is why I was able to bring her back.”

“You really do enjoy cats,” he remarked. The pheasant’s scent was starting to fill their small clearing, and if they were unlucky, it would draw other predators toward them. “Why is that?”

“They can be so delightfully contrary,” Windblade said with a straight face. Then she smiled. “They have their own personalities and can be so affectionate. If I could be any animal, I would want to be a cat, I think.”

“Not a—what did you call them? Shadow whales?”

Windblade shrugged. “I’ve walked the line between life and death so often that I wouldn’t wish it on my animal self. Of course, there are some who would say that cats walk that line too.”

Starscream’s interest piqued. “Oh?”

“In Carcer, cats are the guards to other realms of existence,” Windblade told him. “Particularly the realms of death. There are times when I’ve gone looking for cats, having left them in a closed room with limited furniture, but they hadn’t been there only for them to be there a few hours later. In some Carcerian tales, cats prevent souls from leaving the realms of death, and they can see ghosts and other creatures that prey on the living.”

“I wonder if that’s why Mau took to me the way he did,” Starscream murmured. “Most animals don’t like me.”

“Most animals can sense death and instinctively flee it,” Windblade agreed. “You see it with animals and sudden natural catastrophes. There are some species that are more comfortable with death than others. But in the case of Mau, I think it’s that cats are just naturally contrary.” She gave him a cheeky grin, and he rolled his eyes at her.

“It’s been nice,” he said abruptly. “Having a pet.”

“I like animal companions,” Windblade said quietly. “They can such a refreshing change from, well, the rest of us. Their demands are fairly simple, and their company is far more pleasurable.”

There wasn’t much he could say to that, but by then, the pheasant was finished, and after dinner, Windblade walked off into the forest with the pheasant leavings and feathers. Now that Starscream was aware, he knew that Windblade was leaving them for the forest spirits. It was superstitious, but in this forest, he thought it was a reasonable precaution.

When they curled up to sleep for the night, Windblade was tucked against him. He wasn’t a clingy sleeper, but she was warm and the ground was even colder than the air. Despite her warmth and the warmth from those crystals she carried, he slept badly. He had grown used to sleeping in beds, and sleeping on the ground was a thing of the long-past. Additionally, although he hated to admit it to himself, he was pushing forty, and that was a little too old for this kind of nonsense.

At some point during the night, when the fire was nothing but ash and embers, he woke up when he heard something walking close by. He tensed as he carefully looked out from the blanket cocoon to scan the area, and his heart rate spiked when he saw a pair of glowing red eyes locked onto their position. Then it moved, and he saw that it had a large rack of antlers. He calmed for a moment. Stags were fine. He didn’t want to get on the wrong side of one, but they weren’t violent like wolves or boars.

Then the stag opened its mouth, and Starscream’s heart almost stopped at the fangs. He reached for his knife under the blankets, but he frozen when the stag bent down and started to eat Windblade’s offering. Viscera disappeared between its’ pearlescent fangs, and Windblade mumbled something into his back before molding herself to the curve of his body.

Her hand curled over his heart, and even in her sleep, she sent heat through her hand to pass through his clothing to his skin. Under her touch, his heart rate calmed and he pulled himself back into their blanket nest. When the sounds of the creature eating quieted and it sounded as though it was moving away, he relaxed enough to drowse.

Dawn came too early, and with it a chipper Windblade. He had decided this, he groused to himself as she ordered him around the campsite, he had decided to marry a _morning person_. Primus help him.

They reached the stone maze surrounding Vector Sigma by midmorning. Vector Sigma was on the top of a gentle hill, but the forest abruptly ended near the middle of the hill. Despite the weak winter sunlight, mist curled around the base of the stone maze and chilled the air in such a way that left even Windblade feeling the cold. They tied up their horses and left them with full nosebags and water—they didn’t know when they would return, exactly.

There was a natural boundary where the stone maze began, and as soon as they crossed it, their gold ornaments that held their glamour charms fell out of their ears, blackened with tarnish. Windblade stared down at them before back up at Starscream. “We must go as we are.”

Her eyes were returned to their luminescent blue he enjoyed so much. “I suppose so.”

Windblade swallowed, and then she offered her hand. He took it, and together they wandered into the stone maze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The potion of poppy oil and honey is based on a real life example called [Godfrey's Cordial](http://pediatrics.aappublications.org/content/45/6/1011). It was officially documented starting in the 18th century, where nurses would use it to soothe and drug infants (obviously ending up in a certain amount of infant death). 
> 
> The title of 'Medica' was similar to the title of 'Trotula', or lady doctor trained by the Salerno medical school. Treatises by Drs. Trotula still exist.
> 
> Comfrey has been used to treat wounds and inflammation for centuries. Lavender and calendula have anti-septic and anti-inflammatory properties, but that doesn't mean you should substitute these herbs for treatment from a doctor! I have no medical license, do not use me for medical advice. This is a work of fiction.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter, because it's ~mystical. There were 2 definite influences on this: _Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade_ , and the Descent of Inanna from Sumerian mythology. Although unlike poor Inanna, Windblade and Starscream get to keep their clothes _on._
> 
> Your comments are all really lovely. Thank you for them.

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE DOORS OF PERCEPTION**

She had named the stone maze correctly—there were several turns, but for someone who hadn’t gone through it before, Starscream was confident in leading her by only taking right turns. The ground was unnaturally cold, and despite the lining of her riding boots, the cold was curling up through her boots and chilling her to the bone.

Something about the stone maze wasn’t right, either—she drew closer to Starscream when some of the low-lying mist circled around her ankles. “What is this place?” she asked quietly.

“It’s the first test,” he replied, just as quietly. “Megatron told me about this part. You can’t show fear.”

Too late, Windblade thought ruefully. “What happens if you do?”

“The restless dead swamp you and kill you,” Starscream said casually. “They’re what make this place so cold and eerie.”

“You are far too blasé about this,” Windblade noted.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve been in a place with the restless dead.” Starscream’s lips were barely moving as he talked, and as Windblade clung a little closer, under his coat she felt him trembling slightly. She suspected it was the cold. “Sometimes you have to make an offering for safe passage.”

“Like what?” she asked, and she was proud her voice didn’t waver. “I don’t have any entrails to tempt them with.”

Starscream laughed quietly, and at his laughter, the omnipresent pressure of the dead receded a moment. “They’re not interested in dead things, my dear.”

“Please don’t tell me that means we have to give them ourselves in any way,” she replied.

“Just a little bit of blood,” he said in her ear. “You will just need to cauterize the wound so that they can’t use it to hurt you further.”

“My blood? Why not yours?”

“Your blood has life in it,” and curse it, he _was_ laughing at her again.

“I have a better idea,” she snapped in response as she tore off one glove to grab his hand. When she tugged on his hand, he allowed his magic to spiral around hers. Carnelian light flared between them and chased away the sinuous twists of mist, but the feeling of ghosts sharpened around them.

Then they were rushed. Windblade straightened, but the ghosts weren’t aiming for her or Starscream—the magic between them was the true draw. As soon as they touched the glowing orb, the ghosts vanished. For more than a minute, Windblade couldn’t see anything but the shades, but then they vanished all at once. Windblade breathed out, and Starscream dropped her hand.

“Was that intentional?”

“I wanted to give them peace,” Windblade said as she found the small bottle of water she kept at her belt. She took a sip and then offered it to Starscream, who took it. “It seemed that was exactly what they wanted. And we are not threatened now.”

“Indeed not,” Starscream said.

His barely-there sarcasm pricked her temper, so close to the surface where he was concerned. She swallowed and buried her anger. It did not serve. Then she brushed the pocket where the square of gauze with his blood resided, and she felt better.

The stone maze ended at the entrance to a cave, and fear rose up inside her at its dank crossing. She hesitated before crossing the threshold, but she forced herself to cross over. Damp air greeted them both, and Windblade’s back straightened as she sent out a wave of magic ahead of them. There were no ghosts waiting for them in the crouching darkness.

The walkway into the cave dropped suddenly, and Windblade caught herself on the rough-hewn stone to stop from falling down. She summoned a witchlight, and the crimson light glowed oddly on the mossy walls. Her heartbeat rushing in her ears, Windblade descended down the walkway. It was a smooth path, but as it twisted into a spiral shape, she wished for stairs. The slightly damp stone kept catching on her boot soles and making her skid.

Behind her, she could hear Starscream’s rough breathing, and in her peevishness, she wished him further discomfort.

The journey downward ended abruptly, and Starscream stumbled into Windblade’s back as she caught herself. “What’s the problem?” he complained, before he looked over her shoulder. “Oh.”

‘Oh” was about a dark, oval-shaped gate. They could not see past the bars, and Windblade steeled her courage and touched the gate. The two parts of the gate opened away from them, into the darkness, and Windblade’s crimson witchlight followed after them. Once they both stepped over the threshold, Windblade’s witchlight died away.

Windblade found Starscream’s hand in the dark and he squeezed it.

Torches burst into crackling light as they took another step into the chamber beyond, and Windblade flinched at the sudden light. It illuminated a chamber with full shelves of exquisite goblets made of every metal Windblade knew, as well as goblets of glass and crystal. The goblets glittered with gems, throwing light and reflecting it. Windblade stopped to stare, unsure of what the display meant.

One in particular caught her eye—it was made of clear rock crystal, with many facets of the carved crystal. Unlike the other goblets, it had no other jewels set into it, but it was hardly necessary with the construction of the glass.

“What is this?” Windblade muttered to Starscream.

From a patch of shadow, an elderly person in purple robes appeared. Their grey beard was thin and bedraggled, but it reached down to their navel nonetheless. Their eyes were a cloudy blue, but they sharpened as they saw Windblade and Starscream.

Starscream’s lips twisted in a mocking smirk, but he pressed a hand to his heart and bowed deeply. “Lord Alpha Trion. What a surprise it is to see that you still grace this earth.”

“Prince Starscream,” Alpha Trion replied with equal respect. “Allow me to say the same to you. Wouldn’t you have been assassinated by now?”

“Clearly not.” Starscream turned to Windblade. “Princess Windblade of Caminus, may I introduce you to Alpha Trion, the previous companion to Metroplex. I suspect that he prefers your company to this walking corpse.”

At the term ‘walking corpse’, Windblade’s eyes widened.It put the finger on her disorientation—she could feel her magic, but when she reached for it, it eluded her. When they had crossed the threshold of this chamber, it had blocked off her magic.

Despite that block, she could still detect heartbeats. She and Starscream had strong ones—hers more fluttery due to her anxiety—but she could only barely detect Alpha Trion. His body was a patch of different life energies, but the curious thing was that none of them were his. Had she been able to throw a veil of magic over him, she might have been able to figure it out, but she was helpless.

“What are you doing here?” Starscream demanded of Alpha Trion. “The last anyone heard of you, you had died in the aftermath of the first siege of Iacon.”

“Metroplex kept me from harm,” Alpha Trion said with palpable chill. “I came here and devoted my life to Primus, to test the supplicants who came here.”

Starscream crossed his arms. “Well, test us then.”

Alpha Trion inclined his head sardonically. “Of these goblets,” he said as he spread his hands to encompass, “one was crafted by Solus’ own hands. You must discover which one it is, without touching any of them except your choice.”

“And what happens if we do?” Starscream snapped.

Alpha Trion gave them a thin smile. “You will die.”

Starscream looked to Windblade. “Well, my dear?” Her hackles rose at his endearment, but she forced it down. “This is _your_ Prime.”

Alpha Trion stared at Windblade, but she ignored him. She started on the left, her hands tucked behind her back to prevent any inadvertent touching. She knelt down to scrutinize the first tier of goblets. She discounted the pure glass and crystal goblets at one glance—Solus preferred to work her artistry through metal and only accentuated with glass and crystal.

Starscream watched her observations with some anxiety. She moved across the first table to the second and murmured to herself, but quietly enough that he couldn’t catch it. Alpha Trion was as tense as he was, which was…strange.

Starscream considered Alpha Trion.

Windblade moved to the third table, a little perturbed that she hadn’t found the goblet yet. Anxiety was starting to simmer in her stomach, but she made herself put it aside as she continued to examine the goblets.

Starscream smoothed the edges of his coat as it became more and more apparent that Windblade wasn’t finding it. Had he miscalculated? If she called it wrong, could he have Alpha Trion kill her but leave him alive?

Windblade went over all three tables again just to justify her instinct. After she went over the third table a second time, she turned to Alpha Trion.

“Have you made your decision?”

“I have.”

Alpha Trion spread his hands to encompass the room. “And it is?”

“A trick.” Windblade straightened her shoulders. “None of the goblets in this room were crafted by Solus.”

Alpha Trion inhaled sharply, and Starscream tensed, but then Alpha Trion nodded. “You are correct,” he bit out. “None of these goblets were made by her hand. How did you know?”

Windblade shrugged. Like she was going to tell him.

“You have passed the first test, but now you must pass the second.”

The patch of shadow Windblade had thought had concealed Alpha Trion appeared to congeal and then lengthen until it was a spirit hanging in front of the two of them. Its’ body was incorporeal—she could see Alpha Trion through it.

Starscream snorted. “A ghoul, Alpha Trion? I hadn’t thought you possessed enough soul to _feel_ guilt.”

Alpha Trion snarled, and the body of the spirit thickened as it flew toward Starscream. Windblade reacted instinctively as she lunged at Starscream’s legs to knock him over. The spirit flew over the both of them with a high pitched keening, and Starscream shoved her off him. “Get _off_ me,” he ordered, and she rolled away from him as he got to his feet and prepared for the second attack.

She wished abruptly that she could use the magic she had, but something about that stone chamber prevented it. She scanned the chamber for anything that might help, but she was waryof touching the goblets—whatever enchantment on them that would keep the questioned from touching them might still linger. She saw the torches jutting from the wall and she flew to one. Alpha Trion took a step toward her as she pulled the torch from its sconce, but when she waved the fire in his face, he left her alone.

Starscream was struggling to keep the ghoul back. Ghouls were natural shape-shifters, and as they wrestled, the ghoul created claws and talons from an unnatural number of arms in the effort to kill him. Starscream ignored the pain. Ghouls were perversions of death, and he was the master of death. It would not master him.

He managed to get a good enough hold on the writhing creature to throw it into the first table of goblets. The ghoul shrieked with pain and smoke appeared from various parts from itself as the crystal shattered around it. It managed to get up and turned itself incorporeal to keep from embedding the crystal shards into itself, and Starscream took a breath.

Then he glanced at Alpha Trion, and the strange patchwork of life magic the old man had all over him made sense.

Alpha Trion was bent over and gasping, with small cuts that smoked all over his body. Starscream looked to the ghoul and then to Windblade, who nodded to show that she understood. When the ghoul killed—and Starscream was beginning to suspect that many people had sought refuge at Vector Sigma over the course of the war, only to ‘fail’ in Alpha Trion’s tests of worth—the ghoul took the soul but Alpha Trion took the life force that remained to sustain his own life. It perverted the course of life and death, and that Primus allowed it was a mystery.

“Alpha Trion is sustaining it,” Windblade murmured to him as she took up a place by his side with the torch at the ready. “It’s a mutual relationship.”

“As we exhaust the ghoul, we’ll exhaust Alpha Trion.”

“Just be careful,” she muttered to him. “We aren’t able to use our magic.”

…Right. He didn’t rely on his magic the way she did and he hadn’t noticed it. In front of them, the ghoul was solidifying, but it was wary. Two opponents would be more difficult, and Windblade was wielding that torch like a sword. He hadn’t known ghouls feared fire, but maybe they didn’t. Maybe they had the fears of their creator.

“Can you sense souls?” he demanded in an undertone as the ghoul feinted toward Windblade. She thrust the torch forward and the ghoul shied away from the open flame.

She glanced toward him. “No,” she said. “I can only sense what’s there.”

Hm. That was interesting, but not for the moment. The ghoul was coming in for another attack, and Starscream tensed before raising his leg and unfurling it at the knee. He extended his leg in an arching kick, and he slammed the heel of his foot into the shaky spirit. At the same time, he reached for his magic and pulled from the ghoul.

To his savage joy, it worked. Death was natural—it could not be blocked. The ghoul fell apart in four pieces of shadow before dispersing with a keen. Alpha Trion crumpled, and Starscream jerked his chin at Windblade.

She frowned at him. “It will _kill_ him.”

“Do you know how many he’s killed to keep himself alive?” Starscream glared at her.

“That doesn’t—.”

“Windblade,” he snapped, “ _Now._ ”

She rolled her eyes at him. She wasn’t going to be instructed in when her magic use was appropriate or not by him, of all people. Still, Alpha Trion had committed a great crime, several times over. To give one’s life force was a wonderful gift; to take someone’s life force without their consent was a violation.

As the ghoul fell apart, she could see all the lines of magic that connected it to Alpha Trion. Life magic, to her, was colored scarlet, and there was a thin blue line in the midst of all that red. She reached for it and pinched it between her thumb and forefinger, and it felt like a vibrating burn against her unprotected fingers. She yanked on it, and Alpha Trion started to scream. The sound of it turned her stomach, but she kept pulling until there was a small blue flame cupped in her hand.

She had to hold tight to it—it wanted to go back to where it left, but the trauma of removing Alpha Trion’s soul had taken the last bit of life force he had, and the body was crumbling into dust, a sure sign that Alpha Trion should have died years before this moment. She needed someplace to put the soul, something that would keep it contained. The Mother Superior had preached that the soul was ageless, and Windblade had no desire to test that theory.

She spied the faceted crystal goblet that had first caught her eye, and with the twisting, burning soul in hand, she moved across the room and shoved the soul into the crystal sides. At first she thought the force would break it, but then the soul soaked into the crystal and was broken up by the facets. The crystal took on an eerie blue hue, but her palm and fingers had stopped burning.

She sagged to the floor, spent.

“It would have been easier just to kill him.”

She barely had the energy to glare at him, but she gave it a try anyway. She didn’t want to explain that removing his soul—which she hadn’t even been sure she _could_ —seemed more respectful and less like an executioner. She respected her magic, and she had made a vow never to use it to kill. She had done penance for the two lives she had taken, and she would not take any more.

Starscream knelt down to wrap his hands around her upper arms. “Up you get, Princess.”

Her legs shook with the effort, but she managed to stand on her own. “What now?”

“Well, normally I would ask the same thing, but I think we met the approval of Primus or whatever dwells in this cave.”

She blinked at him, exhaustion making her head swim. “What?”

Gently—for him—he turned her around and showed her an open gate that had not been there before. “Like I said,” he said in her ear. “We met the approval of Primus.”

—

Windblade took a step into the space behind the gate into inch-deep water. The soles of her boots were strong enough, but as she walked deeper into the darkness, the water rose to her ankles and then her calves. Her boots weren’t fully waterproof, and she shivered as the icy water soaked the lining of her boots and down her socks.

The other factor of the damp cave introduced Windblade to a fear she had never known before: she was terrified of the dark. Between the darkness and the water, when she tripped over a hollow in the water, she yelped and flatly refused to move once she caught her footing. Starscream bumped into her back.

“What is your _problem_?” he hissed.

She did not deign to give him a response. She had no idea how big the cave was, how deep the water got, and when Starscream jostled her, she saw that the gates had closed behind them and there was no longer any light coming through.

“Why aren’t you moving?” Starscream complained.

She didn’t answer, but she couldn’t. Her heartbeat was rushing, and she was starting to shake.

“Oh, you have to be joking,” Starscream muttered before he grabbed her arm. “You’ve never been in the dark before?”

Her lips moved, but she could only nod. Starscream shook his head, but with the magic block, he couldn’t perform any small generic magics, like calling up a witchlight. Death magic was not very good at lighting, well, anything.

He couldn’t do anything about the lack of light, but he might be able to do something about her fear. He moved to grab her hand, and she instinctively allowed it. Cold swirled around her fingers, but she couldn’t push past the block.

“Come on,” Starscream said impatiently. “Someone who’s learned how to use what would be an otherwise weak type of magic the way you do can’t be defeated by a stupid _block_.”

“Your compliments need work,” Windblade managed, but he was needling her enough to provide the emotional reaction to try to beat the block. It was a little like pushing at a closed door—she had accepted it was closed and had left it alone, but Starscream had probably never left a closed door alone in his life. Once she started to really push at it, not with fire but with her life magic, the door started to open.

Finally, her magic ran down her arm to join with Starscream’s, and as the magic flared that now-familiar carnelian, a white light ran under the water to the very center of the spring, before it coalesced into a ghostly figure.

Windblade thought, _I didn’t know Primus had been a carrier._

Primus stood up straight, but from the thickness of his waist to the curves of his torso, Windblade suddenly understood he hadn’t just spoken his Primes into existence—he had birthed them. Her respect for the largely Cybertronian deity metamorphosed into awe. It changed everything she knew about Primus’ relationship with his Primes and the successor primes.

“I have not felt that magic in so long,” Primus said with delight.

Next to Windblade, Starscream was less impressed. “Maybe you might have felt it if you had left this cave,” he remarked. “To be among your people, who have needed you for centuries.”

Windblade stifled a gasp, and Primus turned his gaze on Starscream. “I can understand why you feel that way.” Primus gestured to the spring. “After the war was over, I grieved my brother and so I put myself here. It was time for my people to chart their own destiny, and I needed space and time to grieve and heal. After the trouble with Megatronus and Liege Maximo and I had to lose my favorite child, I couldn’t bear to face the world.”

“So you abandoned us,” Starscream said.

“Starscream,” Windblade objected, “it’s a little more complicated than that—.”

He held up a hand. “You left us to the mercies of the heirs to your Primes and it has brought war, drought, and famine upon us. The last civil war was nearly a genocide—our population went from millions to a scarce few thousand. You could have interfered at any time.”

“I could have,” Primus confessed. “But there was one side-effect of leaving you to be in charge of your own fate. It created a prison—Alpha Trion discovered me by accident and he stayed at my request to give me company. I physically cannot leave here.”

Starscream pursed his lips. “Convenient.”

Primus chuckled. “You are a fitting heir to Megatronus. He never liked my answers either.” Primus looked at Windblade. “And you, Princess, are the spitting image of Solus. I knew she would choose her legacy carefully.”

“W-what?” Windblade managed.

“I can see the mark of Solus’ forge upon you,” Primus said. “And the fact that you wield life and fire simultaneously is proof of that. Fire was not initially part of her magic, but as she forged weapons for her fellow Primes, it became too much of an annoyance to fight fire all the time, so she grasped it and made it her own. Then she discovered that fire was _essential_ to life. I was so proud of her for how she handled the discovery.”

Starscream cleared his throat. “Can you end the drought?”

Primus turned to him fully. “No. It can only be ended by your actions. Especially _your_ actions—it existed prior to your curse, but your curse was tied to it.”

“That’s only part of it,” Starscream growled.

Windblade frowned. This was the second time she had heard talk of his curse. If he had manipulated their betrothal, she deserved to know about his curse. “True,” Primus agreed with a sliver of a smile. “As for the rest, well. Your people are now living a life out of balance. Restore what is out of balance, and the rest will follow.”

“If you’re talking about morality,” Starscream began.

Windblade interrupted. “That’s not what he means, is it?” She turned to Primus. “Someone raised the dead. That’s what’s out of balance, right? It caused that windstorm all those months ago.”

Primus nodded. “Indeed.”

“Right, so we’ll just have to hunt down whoever raised the dead and then just—.”

“Starscream,” Windblade said sharply. “I have a suspicion that whoever was raised will find us. Or is it a coincidence that the Autobots are moving toward Iacon just as someone is raised from the dead?”

Starscream glared at Windblade.

Primus chuckled. “What can I do for you in this moment to help you restore that balance?”

“Water,” Windblade said instantly. “Some of the spring water. I can mix it with the spring water of Metroplex.”

Primus nodded. Two tall, stoppered glasses appeared in his hands, and he drifted them toward Windblade. “Spelled against breakage. The magic of the water will start to leak as soon as the seal breaks, so do not open it until it is time.”

Windblade nodded and took the glasses. The magic in the glass made her dizzy for a moment, but the glasses were small enough to be tucked into her pockets. “And you, lord?” Primus inquired of Starscream.

Starscream’s shoulders straightened. “I need no divine blessings.”

“Not even some intervention?” Primus passed a hand over Windblade’s head. “I can—.”

“ _No_ ,” Starscream said.

Windblade glared at him, and he added, grudgingly, “Thank you.”

Primus smiled sadly at him. “Just like Megatronus—he wanted to make his own way as well. I wish you well, at least.”

Windblade nudged Starscream, and he inclined his head. “Thank you,” he repeated, with more honesty. He looked at the closed gate. “How do we get out of here? Are we doomed to be your company as well?”

“No,” Primus said. “I can show you exactly where the exit is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this chapter is shorter, I'll post another chapter a little more quickly than I usually do.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back to our usual long chapters! Funny story--I _did_ intend for this story to have the length of the chapters it does, but, ah well. 
> 
> _Heavy_ trigger warning for this chapter: attempted rape, discussion of rape, violence, head injuries, and beatings.

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: TO WEAVE A WEB**

_January 22, 1037_

_Northern Cybertron, Sigma Forest_

Prowl sifted through his correspondence box. He still received dispatches—he insisted on it, and it kept him informed on how the world around them was reacting. Caminus was against them, but no surprise there. They were willing to tie their slut to Starscream. Carcer remained neutral, officially, but in their latest dispatch there was another bag of money, so.

Eukaris didn’t care, and neither did Navitas. They traded with Starscream, but one government was as good as another.

A messenger came in with a fresh dispatch, and Prowl took it. The messenger left, and Prowl opened the dispatch. It was from his spies in Caminus—apparently the heir and his wife had retreated into seclusion because one of them was ill. His spies were not in high placements, to his chagrin, so they didn’t know _which_ member of the duo was ill.

He tapped the desk with the letter before he put it away in the leather folder for Caminus.

Prime entered Prowl’s tent with a swirl of the flap, letting in cold and some snowflakes. “The soldiers are getting restive.”

“They always get restive when we’re camped in the cold. They’ll get over it.”

“I begin to understand why you are not the one they would willingly follow. You don’t care for the soldiers under your care.”

Prowl glanced at Prime. “I will not,” he said as pleasantly as he could, “be lectured about my treatment of soldiers by _you_.”

Prime’s eyes flashed. “What is your plan?”

“We’re playing a game of cat and mouse. Are you willing to wait?”

Prime sat back. “As long as you’re willing to explain it.”

Prowl found a smirk. “I am more than happy to.”

—

_January 22-23, 1037_

_Iacon, Cybertron_

Marissa stepped quickly to Thundercracker’s side on the palace steps. “Help me, would you? DC never used these ridiculous capes.”

Thundercracker rolled his eyes as he fastened her blue cape to her shoulder armor. “It looks very becoming,” he said tartly.

“Good way to get killed,” she muttered as she threw her braid over her shoulder. She checked her knife sheath on her thigh as the gates opened to let in the beginning of the Camien cavalcade. She straightened and crossed her hands in front of herself as the driver for the front carriage dropped down and walked over.

They had short hair and lacquered blue armor, and the driver bowed to them both. “Prince Thundercracker.”

“It’s Lord, actually. And you’re Chromia, the Princess’ captain and herald. Captain Chromia, may I introduce my wife,” Marissa noted the proud _my wife_ , “Commander Marissa Fairborn.”

Captain Chromia bowed to Marissa. “Commander.”

“Captain,” Marissa said crisply, “we were not expecting the length of your caravan. Would you care to explain?”

“Part of it are supplies,” Captain Chromia explained. “The Mistress of Flame is aware that the Autobots are on the move and that the city is likely to become besieged. Once that happens, no trade can get in or out, so the Mistress of Flame ordered a complete inventory of all supplies and has sent medical and food supplies.”

Thundercracker’s eyes widened. “That is—most generous.”

Captain Chromia inclined her head. “I also carry messages.” From her leather satchel, she drew out a closed portfolio. She offered it to Thundercracker, who took it. As he unlaced it, he saw thick envelopes addressed to Lord Starscream, Princess Windblade, and himself. Marissa’s curiosity was piqued, but Thundercracker did not have the bad manners to crack the seal and read the message then and there. She would have to get the missive’s contents from him later.

“With me are also Windblade’s staff, her tailor and valet and a secretary. The Mistress of Flame was assured that the bringing of a staff was acceptable?”

Thundercracker nodded. “She will need some attendants, a lady’s maid.”

“With your permission, my lord, I would screen all applicants.”

Thundercracker glanced at Marissa, who nodded. “With Commander Fairborn, Captain. The Commander will show you to the Princess’ rooms.”

“Has the Princess arrived?” Captain Chromia’s lips twitched, showing her anxiety.

“Not yet,” Marissa said.

“They will be here,” Thundercracker said with authority. “Soon. Commander?”

Marissa tucked two fingers into her mouth and whistled harshly. Thundercracker muted his instinctive surprise, and Captain Chromia flinched before she grinned. The palace staff, who had been milling around on the edges of the plaza, immediately lined up, all ready for Thundercracker’s orders.

Thundercracker started to organize the unexpected goldmine of supplies while Marissa led the Captain into the palace and up the first set of stairs. “How was the trip across?” Marissa inquired. “I understand from—Lord Thundercracker that the Stellar Ocean can be unpredictable.”

Captain Chromia nodded. “We ran into a chain of storms,” the Captain said quietly. “It blew us off course and turned a normally-weeklong journey into two and a half. We lost two caravan drivers—one to illness, the other was swept overboard. It was not an easy journey.”

Marissa took advantage of the curve of a staircase to _really_ look over the Captain. The other woman’s eyes were reddened with grit and her lacquered armor, so initially eye-catching, was dull and pitted. The Captain clearly needed a long, hot bath and a good meal before being shown a soft bed, but something about the curve of the Captain’s mouth told Marissa her offer to arrange such a thing would not be welcome.

Marissa turned onto the landing of what had been the family floor during the reign of Primes, according to Thundercracker. Starscream’s door was closed and no doubt locked, but the Princess’ suite was left unlocked for precisely this purpose. Marissa had explored it the day before, a little curious about why Thundercracker had chosen not to occupy the suite, but one look at the bed had convinced her.

That same look at the bed had the Captain’s jaw dropped. “Obscene, isn’t it?” Marissa smiled. The bed dominated the space, and the heavy oaken posts of the frame nearly obscured the closed door in the space between the frame of the wall and the window. That door led to Starscream’s rooms, a way—or so Thundercracker had said—for the Prime and their consort to, well, _consort_ without alerting the court which nights they spent together and which they did not.

“Why is the bed so large?” Captain Chromia finally found the breath to ask.

Marissa shrugged. “Apparently the Primes were made larger in the Ordeal of the Primes. It was meant to be to scale.”

“Did the consorts also…?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Captain Chromia blanched, and Marissa offered her hand. Captain Chromia looked at it curiously before she hazarded her own. Apparently handshakes were not a Camien thing. Marissa took her hand and pumped it up twice. “Captain, I believe I’m going to _like_ you.”

“Thank you?” Captain Chromia said dubiously.

Marissa grinned. “The staff will start bringing in the Princess’ personal effects. I can help you direct where they’re to be.”

The Captain nodded. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Call me Marissa.”

“Then I must be Chromia.” Chromia offered her a small smile, before they rolled up their sleeves and got to work.

—

_Northern Cybertron, Sigma Forest_

_January 24, 1037_

Starscream brooded as he stared out of the cave to where a blizzard was whipping the trees into a white frenzy. The ponies were perfectly comfortable in the cave, which Starscream guessed had been further enlarged for this exact purpose—there were even rough-hewn stone shelves.

When they had emerged from the series of caves, blinking and disoriented, Windblade had been worse off than him. Her pupils were enlarged and she walked at a tilt, as though she had water in her ears. She walked into a tree and needed help mounting her pony. Starscream finally tied her to the damn animal to keep her from falling off.

He didn’t know what caused it, but finding the cave that clearly doubled as a hunter’s shelter was a gift with the rising wind and sharp, biting cold. Windblade had enough presence of mind to light the crystals instead of making Starscream find enough wood for the fire, a danger in such an enclosed space.

Now he was poking the large pot that was simmering with a thin noodle soup. Windblade’s pupils were still blown and her fingers were shaking where she gripped her blanket, and every time he attempted to talk to her, it was as though she only heard every third word, so to keep his frustration under control, he quit trying.

When the soup was ready, he had to feed her; her fingers trembled too much to hold the spoon. When he finally took stock of all of her symptoms—blown pupils, the shakes, imbalance and her inability to concentrate and engage—he felt like a fool for not realizing it sooner. Primus had _touched_ her, no wonder.

She was suffering from sensory overload of _all_ of her senses, including her magical ones. She could likely detect every heartbeat and see the creatures around them. In a forest, those numbers would be potentially in the millions, depending on her range. The only cure for magical sensory overload was time; he had had it happen to him a few times and it was always deeply unpleasant. With any luck, she wouldn’t be nauseous as well.

To his relief, she kept the broth and noodles down before falling into a fitful sleep.

The wailing of the wind kept Starscream from falling asleep for a long time. The cold and fury of the blizzard echoed his own cold and fury; Primus had largely been useless, no matter what Windblade said, and they still had to make their way back to Iacon while skirting the worst of the forest’s inhabitants. Then it would be a day’s journey across the plains, with no place to hide or be protected should they be pursued.

The fury in his veins throbbed as the wind keened a little louder.

Eventually, he must have fallen asleep, because when he woke, it was to Windblade standing at the mouth of the cave with her back to him. Her hair is down and so knotted and tangled he felt a brief wince at what it would take to comb it out, and she was _singing_.

Well. It wasn’t a true song, in the sense of a melody, lyrics, and a chorus. He suspected it was an enchantment of some kind, or perhaps one of those Camien hymns, but as he approached her, it sounded as though the wind was accompanying her.

Outside, the world was blindingly white. Normally the forest ground was left almost untouched unless the drive of the storm had been greater than the trees’ ability to capture the snow. Starscream blinked and rubbed his eyes in an effort to pick out more than just the downy coating of snow on everything he could see.

Windblade ignored him, her voice lowering down another key. She was—somehow—spelling the storm away. As she lowered her voice, the wind lowered too until it was barely a whisper.

Starscream finally noticed that he was comfortable. The deadly chill of the storm was dissolved in the heat Windblade called forth into the air around her.

When she stopped singing, he said, “Can we go now?”

She rolled her eyes at him and went back into the cave. He followed, badgering her with questions. “How did you do that? _Why_ can you do that?”

She ignored him to drink from a bottle of water, and when she did speak, her voice was hoarse, but pleasantly. “We should wait until this evening. There’s to be a full moon and with the snow it should be easy to see. The storm was dying anyway, I just—hurried it along.”

“Why do we have to wait?” he whined.

She held up one finger—wait, and after two beats, he heard the sound of something breaking and crashing. He stared at her. “What the hell was that?”

“Tree exploding,” she said.

“ _What?_ ”

She drank more of the water, and he watched the line of her throat. She felt comfortable baring her throat to him—did she consider him so defanged? “Trees, when carrying too much weight like too much ice or snow, will explode.”

He gaped at her, and she smirked a little. “What, you didn’t know that? But you’ve done winter campaigns.”

“I guess I got lucky,” he muttered. With the risk of exploding trees, he was more than happy to stay inside the cave until she said it was safe. The last thing he wanted was a wood-and-ice shard in him.

They eked the time away by tending the ponies and giving them a through going-over—Windblade—and Starscream found himself carving a thicker piece of what would have been kindling and turning it into one of the animals of his childhood, a dancing dolphin. They had been Skywarp’s favorite when they were growing up. The royal summer villa of Vos was built over a snug bay, and at dawn the dancing dolphins would gather in the bay and show why they were named that. It was the only time Skywarp was willing to be up at dawn.

For himself, he didn’t really care—they scattered whenever he approached, but he needed something to keep his hands occupied and he could carve a dolphin with very little effort.

The light gradually changed without either of them speaking to each other. Windblade spoke to the ponies in a quiet voice, praising them for how they had carried her and Starscream and had helped to get them away from those brigands. Under Starscream’s hands, the piece of kindling slowly took on the graceful lines of Skywarp’s dolphins.

There were three more muffled explosions, but by the time the sun began to descend, there hadn’t been any for over an hour. They packed up, and once darkness stole across the land, they rode out.

They had been riding for an hour when Windblade asked, “How does one get a ghoul?”

“Ghouls are the result of two factors—one is a true crime, the worst crime: murdering innocents. The second factor is guilt over that crime. When the guilt over that crime overcomes their,” he paused as he tried to find the right term and couldn’t, “when it overcomes, it becomes externalized and becomes a ghoul. It feeds on souls and life force.”

“Then how did—?” Windblade sighed. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

“I’m pretty sure it was during the third siege of Iacon. That was when we finally managed to break the back of the resistance in the siege, and, well,” Starscream shrugged, “soldiers don’t like sieges. I assumed Alpha Trion died in the firing of the library, but if he’s alive, then it’s entirely possible he cut his way out, but then he felt so much guilt…”

Windblade noted how Starscream skated over the issues of soldiers and sieges but she chose not to say anything about it. “Is there any way to dissolve a ghoul?”

“Not well. Ghouls run on guilt, but guilt is a passive emotion. If someone has such bad guilt that it creates a ghoul, they’re usually too far gone to even attempt remorse.”

“You’ve never worried about that?” she asked.

He looked over his shoulder at her. “You think I should feel guilt?”

“I found it’s not unusual in veterans,” she replied as blandly as she could, instead of shrieking that if he was guilty of half of what the refugees of the war accused him of, he should be powering several ghouls.

Starscream pulled his mount to a stop. “That’s _war_. Everyone does bad things, because it’s supposed to help you get through what’s going on. Only cowards regret what bad things they did instead of owning that it was necessary.”

“Was it? Necessary, I mean?”

Starscream tutted at her and nudged his pony to start moving again. “Anyone can sit on the sidelines of a conflict and tell the participants what should have been. What matters is who is there and the decisions I had to make with only a second to make them. I don’t regret my choices, but I wouldn’t make them in a peaceful context.”

It was the closest she might ever get to him flat-out stating he regretted some of the actions he took during the war, but she was still dissatisfied. It wasn’t worth the discussion, however. He was right about one thing—she had never been an active agent in a conflict, merely an afflicted bystander. She didn’t have enough weight to carry her opinion.

After some time of silence, Starscream said, “Did you ever get stuck between two proper enemies?”

“Not in an official war,” Windblade said. “But I’ve been attacked by anarchists at the Carcerian court, and Chromia and I have been forced to deal with bandits and robbers.”

Starscream sniffed, clearly a judgement on her experience or lack thereof, and then he said, “Anarchists?”

Windblade shrugged. “Carcer is unstable.”

“And you were attacked?”

“The Liege General intervened,” Windblade dismissed. “It was a small incident.”

Starscream looked askance at her, but chose to not to pursue it further. “So you were never put into any deeply compromising positions where there were no good choices, then.”

Windblade bit her lip. “Nothing like yours, I would guess.”

Starscream huffed a laugh and Windblade gave him a wry smile. Then her heightened senses picked up something out of the ordinary around them—heartbeats that did not belong to animals. She held up a hand. “Hang on.”

He shut up as she closed her eyes and focused more on what her magical senses. The heartbeats separated into four distinct rhythms, two approaching from either end of the path they were riding. “Four people, two in front of us, two behind. They’re closing in.”

“That’s a military maneuver, a closed pincer.” Starscream looked around them. “Can we outrun them?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Windblade copied him to scan their surroundings. The sky was turning from deep blue to grey with the coming dawn, and her eyes fell on the path. It was bordered by a stone ridge, with the path clearly being a game trail that became popular. Another twenty yards down lay the river, and from where they were, it was choppy and dotted with white. She returned her eyes to the stone ridge, where it was rough and stony. It wouldn’t be the most pleasant ride, but it could be done with their mountain ponies.

Windblade made up her mind and dismounted. “What the _hell_ are you doing?” Starscream hissed.

She rifled through her saddlebags until she found the two glass jars. “Take these,” she said as she brought them over to him. “It’s the only thing we can’t afford to lose.”

“What are you talking about?!”

“ _You_ are going up that hill. _I_ am going to ride on like normal.” She swallowed and then reminded him, “Our glamour charms are gone. Whoever it is will recognize both of us, so you shouldn’t be with me when they get here.”

“You’ll get captured.”

“Exactly. I’ll get captured, but you would be killed. That ridge overlooks the road for quite a ways, you can follow me from above.” Windblade braced her shoulders. “If we both try to hide, it will be easier to find us, which leads us back to you getting killed and me captured. This is the best option.”

Starscream took the glass jars out of her hands. “I don’t like it.”

“I don’t enjoy being a hostage,” she told him. “But your people need you alive.”

He nodded, and then nudged his mount to take him up the hill. Windblade mounted up and spurred her pony forward. It was tempting to make a run for it, but she would only be heading directly for whoever was trying to trap her. To manage her anxiety, she focused on her breathing through her diaphragm, but her pony sensed her nerves and was beginning to fidget.

Those fidgets got worse when they rounded a turn and saw two warriors with serious-looking spears riding toward her. She halted her pony and instinctively reached for a weapon she had put in her saddlebags. She cursed herself mentally for being seven different flavors of stupid as the soldiers’ horses trotted to her. “Get out of my way,” she demanded, borrowing Thunderblast’s most imperious manner.

The two soldiers remained in front of her, and she heard the other two soldiers catch up behind her. She didn’t turn to look at them, but there was some relief in that they were still tailing her instead of following after Starscream.

“Identify yourself,” one of the soldiers ordered.

Windblade tossed her head. “You dare to give _me_ orders?” she sniffed.

The other soldier in front of her levered their spear at her. “This is Autobot territory and you will identify yourself.”

“I’m no threat to the Autobots,” she said. “Who is your commanding officer?”

The soldiers exchanged looks, and the one who had spoken first edged closer. “Perhaps you did not hear me. You will identify yourself.”

Windblade narrowed her eyes. “You will identify your commanding officer to the Princess Windblade of Caminus, or so help me, by the might of Solus you _will_ regret it.”

The soldiers all looked at each other again, surprise and dismay in the line of their shoulders. Windblade enjoyed the curl of cruel vindication—they had just been caught disrespecting a noble, a _princess_ , one whose magic was not well-understood. Who knew what they could be in for?

The second speaker recovered first. “My lady princess—.”

“It’s Your Highness.”

The second speaker coughed. “Your Highness, our commanding officer, Lord Prowl, has requested that if you are discovered in Autobot territory to meet with him.”

It wasn’t a request, but she could act like it was. She raised her chin in Thunderblast’s most arrogant manner. “I am pleased to accept his request, if only to discuss the rudeness of some of the soldiers under his command.” She glared at them as she gathered the reins in her hands. “Well?”

“Uh—of course,” the first speaker stumbled and turned his horse around.

Windblade took a moment to be grateful for the stereotypes of royal behavior. Cybertron had never been a monarchy, so the only reports its people would have had of royal behavior would have been based on rumor and hearsay. These soldiers wouldn’t question her arrogance or imperious manner.

She smelled the army encampment long before she saw it—a mixture of smoke, cooking (and burned) food, horses, and underneath it all, the sour scent of shit and piss. As they approached, some sentries detached themselves from trees to go into the camp. Their little band came to a halt when another small group in full armor stopped them. The leader of the band took off their helm and bowed. “Princess Windblade.”

“My reputation precedes me,” Windblade said dryly.

The leader flashed their teeth in a grin. “More like your appearance. I’m Captain Springer, and I will be escorting you to Lord Prowl.”

“Lord of what, exactly?”

The reactions of the soldiers around them were telling. Most of them made a muffled noise, a snort if Windblade’s judgement was anything to go by. Captain Springer’s demeanor didn’t change, but inclined his head in recognition of her barb. “He is eagerly awaiting your presence.”

“As I am looking forward to going into his,” Windblade said. It might give her the opportunity to confirm whether Elita was funding the Autobots or not. She put off what she would do that information once she had it.

Captain Springer leaned forward to grab her mount’s reins. She let it happen. It was a full military parade that drew the attention of the foot soldiers, and discomfort pricked her when she saw the stares. She lifted her chin and hid the discomfort; she had to channel Thunderblast even more.

As she looked across the camp, she couldn’t identify any kind of organization. There were small pup tents clustered around fires, and the long tents bordering the opposite edge of camp were identified as the cook tents by the scents and smoke. They relied on the stream for their water, but she detected some privies a little too close to the water. If it was a short-term camp, that might not be an issue, but if it was long-term, they would face issues of rice water fever, the shits, or even nervous fever. Didn’t they have healers tell them where to set their privies? The privies shouldn’t be that close to the camp in any case. Shit bred all kinds of disease as well as carrying disease itself. It was an epidemic waiting to happen. It would be so easy.

She swallowed at that realization. She had the ability to help make it happen, but it could kill so many people. She couldn’t use her gift to kill, she _couldn’t_.

Captain Springer led her to a bigger tent toward the middle of the camp. When they arrived in front of the closed flap, the Captain dismounted and offered to help her, but Windblade slid down from the saddle with a scornful glance at them. She had never needed help dismounting as soon as she has mastered riding and she certainly wasn’t going to start requiring help now.

Captain Springer, with a sardonic smile, pulled open the flap and gestured her inside.

The inside of the tent was pleasantly warm, with brass-backed lamps providing stronger lighting than the brazier throwing off heat. Lord Prowl was seated at a small desk, going through letters. There were not many chairs other than the one Lord Prowl was seated on, and after a beat passed, Windblade understood he was deliberately keeping her waiting.

It was a mark of insecurity and territory, and she had no desire to indulge it.

Next to her, Captain Springer cleared their throat, and Lord Prowl looked up. “Oh, my lady princess—.”

“It’s Your Highness,” Captain Springer corrected.

Lord Prowl glared at Captain Springer. “Your Highness. How pleased we are to have you as a guest.”

‘We?’ Was Lord Prowl using the royal ‘we’?

“I was given to understand I had no ability to choose to be your guest,” Windblade said as acerbically as she could. “That does not make me a guest.”

Lord Prowl ignored that as he rose and came to her. She could see that she was taller than him, and it irked him. She tucked away a smile as she gave him her hand, and with a twist of his lips, he bowed and brushed the top of her hand with his lips. She was grateful for the glove.

“Please, join us.”

Once again, a plural. Was it royal pretension or did he intend to have the Captain remain while they talked?

Prowl looked at Captain Springer, who vanished. That settled it—Prowl had royal ambitions, and a poorly-planned army encampment proved the lie of those ambitions. Genuine indignation stiffened Windblade’s imperious manners. “He will rejoin us in a moment with refreshments.”

“So you are keeping the lie that I am here of my own accord,” she said.

Once again, he ignored that. “A princess is traveling alone?”

She had to give Starscream as much of a head start as possible. “I travel with a guard, but as a princess I have protection she doesn’t. I told her to go on ahead when I saw the reception waiting for us.”

“Where were you traveling?” Prowl was making notes, and she held onto the knowledge about Prion. Not yet.

“We were going to Prion. My brother is ill and needs the help of a healer more experienced in his illness than the healers at home.”

“And Starscream?”

“He was going home his own way.” Windblade straightened.

Prowl tilted his head. “Ah. Not together.”

Windblade shrugged. “We don’t have to do everything together.”

Prowl nodded. “We were hoping to discuss the problems in Iacon.”

“I’m certain you were,” Windblade replied, “but I have professional standards and I keep my discretion.”

Prowl’s lips thinned. “Your defiance will not help you.”

“Am I supposed to believe that?” Windblade’s back straightened. “And that you would call it _defiance_? Have you no honor?”

“Honor is in the eye of the beholder,” Prowl replied. “And I happen to know that Starscream has none. He’s committed crimes—huge ones. It isn’t just the destruction and massacre of my city. Starscream oversaw the torture of my people and orchestrated some of the worst crimes of the war.”

“That is likely true,” Windblade said, in as cold a tone she could manage. “But I happen to know war crimes go both ways. Additionally, the way Starscream has cared for his people is more than I can say for you. Who goes to war in winter?”

Prowl leaned back in his chair, his eyes glinting. “So you are refusing to accept our help.”

“I was not aware you were offering any.”

Prowl smiled faintly. “You do not want to marry Starscream.”

Windblade raised her brows. “Excuse me?”

“No one would want to marry him,” Prowl said. “He’s a monster. Every time something goes wrong, he will blame you and punish you until you are nothing but a shadow of your former self. Surely you know that.”

“I fail to see how that helps me,” Windblade remarked. She smoothed her hands over the lap, reminding herself of the bloody cloth in her pocket. She had her own ways of protecting herself without the intervention of the Autobots. “It is merely reminding me what I already know.”

“If you know he’s a monster, why marry him?”

“I believe everyone has the capability to be a monster, and also the capability to rise above it. I see that capability in him.” She shrugged. “Besides, it is a political marriage.”

“You could do better.”

“Are you offering me help or relationship advice?” She shook her head. “I still haven’t heard anything worth the breath it’s taking you to speak.”

“We can kill him,” Prowl tilted his head. “Get rid of him and loose you from the shackles on an unhappy marriage alliance.”

“In exchange for?” Windblade raised her brows.

“Nothing,” Prowl shrugged. “You remain with us and allow us to remove Starscream without your interference.”

“You think you can take the city with only Starscream’s blood shed?” Windblade read between the lines easily—Prowl was a threat, that was clear, but he did not have Elita’s subtle air of menace when she was trying to manipulate a hostage.

Prowl looked a little discomfited at her realization. Did he think her stupid? She had traveled international diplomatic circles for almost a decade. She had to learn political doublespeak. “Anyone who sides with Starscream will need to be eliminated, of course. But we have reason to believe that we have more allies in the city than he knows.”

“In one breath, you criticize him for a massacre eighteen years ago and in the next you propose your own,” Windblade observed. “I find such situational morality…troubling.”

Prowl scowled. “Have we a bargain?”

Windblade rose. After a beat, he copied her. “I need some time to consider your…proposal,” she said coolly. “To stand and do nothing whilst a massacre occurs, that is something I must consider and weigh on my conscience.”

Prowl glared at her. “Captain!”

Captain Springer entered the tent. “The Princess will be our honored guest for an indefinite period,” Prowl ordered the captain. “We are placing her under your protection, Captain. Do not fail us.”

Captain Springer snapped off a salute. “Yes, sir. Your Highness?”

Windblade followed the captain out of the tent. Outside, despite the rising sun, cold air bit into her coverings. Her pony was in the middle of a knot of soldiers, and when he reared, she dropped into a run and pushed through the knot. “What the _hell_ are you doing?” she demanded with real anger as she grabbed the reins and pulled down the pony’s head until he calmed. She stroked his nose and he lipped her palm.

“We were just trying to take off his tack,” one of the soldiers babbled. “Swear!”

“Sh,” Windblade soothed the pony, whose eyes were still rolling with anxiety. It had to be more than taking off his tack—mountain ponies were notoriously hard to fluster. She glanced at her saddle and bags and guessed that these soldiers had been attempting to search them, and her pony had objected.

It wasn’t worth arguing about. The soldiers would only disagree.

“Whenever my mare gets the fidgets, she always calms down with some peppermint,” Captain Springer said into her ear as she felt a small candy being pressed into her free hand. She took it and offered it to her pony, who carefully ate it.

“Good boy,” Windblade breathed to him. “You’re all right.”

“Somehow I didn’t see you as a horse person,” Captain Springer commented.

Windblade rolled her eyes and continued to stroke her pony’s nose. “I’m good with most animals.”

“Come meet my mares,” the captain suggested. “In my unit, we ride with two horses because we ride hard over long distances. I’d rather not kill my mount if I can help it.”

Windblade grabbed the reins and turned to follow them. “Your unit?”

“Officially the Irregulars, unofficially the Wreckers,” the captain told her cheerfully. “We get sent to the missions that have too high a chance of failure for anyone else.”

“…Ah.”

“We all ride mares or geldings. The last thing we need is some sex-crazed stallion giving us away because he can smell mares of the enemy and leading us to an attack.” The captain plugged two fingers into their mouth and whistled as they came upon a group of dingier-colored tents than what was around them, and Windblade winced as other soldiers streamed from the tents or the fire to meet them. “‘Twist, breakfast on the fire yet?”

“M’working on it,” one of the soldiers in grey with blue edging on their uniform whined. “Jus’ oatmeal, though. Tha’s all them crones in the canteen would let me’n’Topspin take.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Captain Springer said. “But look bright, soldiers, we’ve got company.”

Windblade was suddenly the focal point for eight—no, nine pairs of eyes. All of the Irregulars looked exhausted, and in the case of two of them, too cold to function. If they sat any closer to the fire, their dirty clothes would catch.

“This is Princess Windblade, and you’ll show her respect,” Captain Springer added, “or I’ll know why. She’s a guest of Prowl’s, and he doesn’t want her harmed in any way.”

“Better not tell Impactor that,” one of the soldiers muttered, and the rest of them guffawed.

Captain Springer’s foot was tapping on the churned up, muddy ground. Gradually the soldiers calmed. “I mean what I say,” the captain said quietly.

“Yessir.”

Windblade turned to the captain. “Your mares?”

“This way,” Captain Springer pointed. They walked together a bit until they came to a corral, and when the captain removed two carrots from his pockets, two horses—a blue roan and a fiery chestnut—both approached him with prancing steps. Captain Springer fed them both carrots, and Windblade approached with an open palm.

_Please, Solus, do not let me have my hand bitten off by a warhorse._

The chestnut mare’s nostrils flared and she took a step back, but the blue roan was happy to sniff Windblade’s palm. Windblade bent down slightly to blow into the blue roan’s nostrils to teach the mare her scent, and then the blue roan was happy to be petted. “She’s a love,” Captain Springer said as he watched her. “Not the best trait in a warhorse, but she’ll protect me with everything she has. I raised her from a filly, hard to do in a war zone but I did, and she saved my life a few times.”

Captain Springer was technically an enemy, and his soft side in regards to his horses was making it hard for Windblade to dislike him. “How did you come to be captain of the Irregulars?”

“It was formed when Autobot brass realized they needed a team who could get in and out and have more mobility than the average unit. Because of that, though, it has a pretty high mortality rate.”

The chestnut, sensing that Windblade was all right if the blue roan liked her, approached for an introduction too. She was a beautiful horse whose hide went over all copper in the sunlight. “I can imagine,” Windblade murmured.

“We have a pretty loose command structure,” Captain Springer continued. “We have to. My predecessor in leadership played fast and loose with command did exist, to the point that he was removed for insubordination. He’s still part of the team, though.”

Windblade glanced at him sidelong. “That doesn’t make it difficult?”

“He brings too much in morale for him to be court-martialed,” Captain Springer said with a truly ugly look on his face. Windblade shivered. Something bad had happened between the two, she would bet money on it.

“Twin Twist should have something to eat by now, if it’s not scorched,” Captain Springer said. “Come on.”

When they came back to the fire, there was a tenth pair of eyes Windblade hadn’t remembered from before. She didn’t need Captain Springer’s stiffened back to tell her that the new arrival was bad; she looked into their eyes and knew she was looking at the walking dead.

—

“You were not supposed to approach her,” Prowl snarled, at the end of his patience. “She would know what you are and that would blow it for the whole army. The _plan_ was that I would talk to her and I would get her to where we needed her. Do you remember the _plan?_ We worked on the _plan_ together!”

“She needed to know what an oathbreaker Starscream was,” Prime growled back. “That he would not honor any oaths made to her or—.”

“I _do_ know what an oathbreaker is,” Prowl retorted as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I went with you to prosecute it, remember?”

“The Prince of Vos has no honor.”

“And that’s what you told her, is it?”

“Yes,” Prime hissed. “It isn’t my fault the chit fainted after I told her that. Who would have thought she was in such love with the swine!”

Prowl pulled on the last remaining controls of his temper. “Do not approach her again. Springer.”

“Yes?” The captain entered the tent promptly, with no clue in his countenance that he had been eavesdropping. Prowl had done the protective spells himself, but he didn’t fully trust Springer not to try to unravel them.

“I need your team to scout ahead and find the safest route to travel along the river.”

“Who’s to guard the princess?”

Prowl had the answer ready. “Impactor.”

Springer’s eyes widened. “No.”

Prime turned on him as an available outlet for his anger and frustration. “You disobey a direct order from your commander—,” Prime started.

“With all due respect, Prime, my answer is still no. Impactor has a reputation and to put the princess in front of him…”

“We have been looking for a reason to take care of him,” Prowl reminded Springer. “This will be it.” It would have the benefit of also discrediting the princess, Prowl mused. Impactor was popular and her reaction would undermine anything else of worth she might have had to say. “Am I wrong?”

“This is not the right way to do it,” Springer protested.

“This is the only way to do it,” Prowl told him. “Hostages, especially noble ones, are to be protected. When one of our own breaks that trust, we must remedy it.”

Springer gnawed his lip. “It still is not right.”

Prowl lost his temper completely. “This is not a discussion, Captain! Do as I say!”

Springer looked from Prowl to Prime and back again. His mouth set in a line, he bowed and exited. Prowl turned on Prime. “I mean it. No more contact with her. I will not have you give the game away.”

Prime scowled. “Fine.”

Let that be the end of it, Prowl prayed. _Please_.

—

Windblade woke up in a tent so grey she half-expected dust from the canvas to mark her face. When she wiped at her skin, she was relieved to see that no dust stained her fingers. The grayness of the tent hid the direction of the sunlight, but she suspected it was well after noon. The night ride and adrenaline of being captured and then meeting that—that _revenant_. She had been right, the monster would be put in her path.

She knew something else, too. Whoever had animated the creature—and she suspected Prowl was the mastermind of it—they had used the body of a Prime, but it was not the same Prime. The reactions of the soldiers to the revenant had made that clear. The question was, _which_ Prime? Someone who hated Starscream, that was certain.

That left a rather long list.

The tent flap bulged before being pushed aside. Windblade sat up as Captain Springer entered. “I have to take my group to scout,” he told her. “Prowl’s assigned someone else to guard you, but, just in case,” he offered her a sheathed dagger, which she took with surprise, “I suspect you know how to use this.”

“Captain, I—.”

“Please,” he interrupted. “Don’t ask me, because then I would have to tell you.”

“If you hate him,” Windblade said quietly, “you could come to Iacon. Seek asylum.”

“Prowl believes in the Autobot cause, and I would never serve Starscream. _Ever_.” The captain shook his head. “But—it doesn’t matter. The Autobot cause is everything. I can’t abandon it.”

“I hope you have the chance to tell me why,” Windblade said. She glanced down at the dagger. It was a fine, though plain, dagger with a good weight to it. “That it’s worth your honor.”

Captain Springer flinched. “Good luck, Your Highness.”

“Captain—,” he halted as she called him. “You can call me lady princess.”

He nodded and left.

Windblade took the sheathed dagger and laid back down on the cot. She tucked the dagger on her opposite side and hoped like hell she wouldn’t need it. In the meantime, she needed to plan how to escape. She recognized the light that had been in Prowl’s eyes, and it was not a mindset that would leave her alive if she refused him. She needed an exit strategy.

—

Impactor whistled to himself as he ambled to Springer’s tent. He’d gotten orders from Prowl to watch over that pampered princess in Springer’s absence. It wasn’t like it was going to be hard—just get her to the cooks, feed her, and tuck her back into bed. Coddled nobles just needed to have their egos stroked.

He found the princess pacing in the tent. “‘Ello,” he started with a deliberate drawl, but she cut him off.

“Why are you here?”

Her words were clipped, and he could hear an accent in her Cybertronian. It made him sneer. _Foreigners._ “Guard duty, your worship,” he said with a lazy salute. “Cap’n Springer got busy so here I am.”

She pressed her lips together. “Is your presence required?”

Impactor rolled his eyes and deepened his drawl. “It is for my orders, Worship. I’m supposed to take you to dinner.”

“I refuse.”

“Yeah, that don’t work for me, Princess. Now, you can walk for yourself, or I can carry you.” Impactor eyed her up and down. “Honestly, that works for me a bit more.”

The princess’ jaw tightened, and without another word, she stalked out of the tent. Impactor left after her.

With some surprise, he found that she already knew where the dining tents were and she led him there with a stiff back and pursed lips. Impactor nodded to the soldiers they passed, at times rolling his eyes in the princess’ direction when he got a questioning look. She entered the dining tent, hesitating for a moment before she went for the cooks. Impactor figured she was safe enough and he went over to Swerve, an assistant cook who dabbled in experimental distillery.

“Top me off, Swerve, be a friend.”

Swerve chuckled as he opened a keg and filled a leather jack. “Since when are you on guard duty?”

“Since Prowl got a bee in his bonnet about this particular bitch.” Impactor shrugged and took the jack from Swerve. Across the tent, the princess was more interested in gabbing with the cooks than actually getting food. Impactor rolled his eyes. _Nobles_.

Now the princess was leaning over the pots and _stirring them_. Primus. “Can you believe her?” he remarked to Swerve as he passed back his jack for a refill. “Of all the things to do. She could be eating, but instead she’s trying to help the cooks.”

“Wonder why,” Swerve said.

“It tickles her fancy? Who knows. I never went in for that fancy stuff.” Impactor drained the jack and returned it to Swerve. “I’d better make sure her Highness actually gets something to eat, else Prowl’ll have my hide.”

Impactor meandered his way over to where the princess was examining the last of the cook pots, and a spirit of devilry took over him as he approached, which caused him to reach out and touch her ass. She straightened immediately and glared at him. “I do not give you permission.”

Impactor, who couldn’t care less, said, “That’s nice.” To the cooks, he added, “Can you get the princess a bowl? Prowl has her on a curfew, and no one disobeys Prowl, eh?”

The cooks scowled at him, but one of them got the princess a bowl. She stalked over to one of the long tables and sat down in a huff, which only became more pronounced when Impactor seated himself _right_ next to her. She had that aspect of nobility, all right—none of the nobles he remembered liked to be that close to the ‘common element’ either.

Which only made him want to annoy her more.

Underneath the table, while she ate as quickly as she could, he dandled his foot along her booted ankle. She moved away from him, but that only meant he had won and so he continued to press her.

One of the cooks interceded by stepping between them and shoving a hot carving fork on his cheek. He heard his flesh sizzle and he stood up to do something, but his ankle folded and he fell to the ground. The cook returned to their pots and the princess was smirking at him. He had an old injury on his ankle, from the beginning of the war, and the cold didn’t do much to help it, but he still suspected she had something to do with it.

The princess rose from the table and took her bowl and spoon to the dishwashers. She gave them a smile and thanks—no tip, but somehow Impactor doubted she had any money on her. The dishwashers, like the cooks, melted at her thanks. Impactor snorted. A bit of politeness from a noble and they melted like snow in spring sun. Couldn’t they see it was all an act? Nobles were never kind or polite unless it suited their immediate purposes. That went double for royals.

The princess returned to him. “I’d like to walk.”

“That don’t work for me, princess.”

“I don’t care. I’ve been cooped up in that tent for too long, and now I’d like to stretch my legs. I’m not a prisoner,” she pointed out.

Impactor set his jaw. She was right. A hostage was not the same as a prisoner. “Fine,” he grumbled.

The princess, to his surprise, wanted to walk around the camp’s perimeter. She paused at each of the stones that anchored the shield spells, and something about it made Impactor uncomfortable. He didn’t see her work any magic—she barely even touched the stones—but he suspected Prowl wouldn’t like it. Every time he started to move toward her to get her to stop, she would straighten and move forward.

It took them well over an hour to travel around the camp that way. Night was beginning to fall and the cold was coming on fierce. The earlier folding of his ankle made his ankle start to hurt, and by the time they returned to Springer’s tent, he was limping.

“Good night,” the princess told him before she entered the tent, closing the flap behind her.

Impactor levered himself onto the log in front of the fire pit full of embers, and he poked the embers until he could coax a flame out of them. The collection of kindling fed the rising flames, and the heat soothed his aches—but raised his ire. The princess had dismissed him but had won over the cooks and dishwashers. Why were they better than him?

He fumbled in his pocket for his flask and sipped the fiery brandy. The drink warmed him from the inside out as he brooded on the princess’ disrespect. How had her family remained in power when they were such awful people?

By the time he had drained his flask, he had come to a decision. The princess carried her head high, as though the world below was blessed to see the inside of her nostrils. He would give her a reason to keep her head down.

—

Windblade stared at the top of the canvas. Her mind was split between two things—her awareness of her guard’s heartbeat outside the tent, and the ripples of power that built her exit strategy. It would need a catalyst, but she needed to be sure that the power was there before she could.

The guard’s heartbeat changed as he rose. She left the power where it was, to feed and generate more of itself as she narrowed her focus onto her guard. Earlier, she had thought that the soldier was just obnoxious with a liking for irritating everyone around him, but when he had groped her she had known. He was an opportunist who looked for reasons to be angry and to be able to act on that anger.

He had clearly found a reason to justify what he was about to do. She didn’t understand how he thought he could get away with it, but if he was as unsophisticated as she suspected, he didn’t bother to consider the consequences until after the fact.

She would need to defend herself soon. The question was—would he prefer to sneak up on her, or to physically overpower her? She reached for the knife and wrapped her right hand on the handle. Its presence steadied her.

There was the rasp of a tent flap and Windblade shut her eyes. The suspense was killing her, but for her self defense to have the best chance, he had to be taken by surprise. She heard the adjustment of pant laces and the groaning of a released codpiece.

She tightened her grip on the knife as the heartbeat grew closer, but she was shocked when the guard reached for the cot and threw her on the ground in a tangle of blankets. She lost track of the knife as she kicked out with her feet to push him away. Her feet landed on his stomach and she heard the air leave his lungs. She scrambled to her feet to run out of the tent, but he grabbed her ankle and yanked her down.

She screamed for help as he grabbed her hair and dragged her away from the tent opening. She scratched at his hand with her nails, pulling with her magic to make the cuts deeper than they should be. He dropped her and she rolled onto her back, prepared to kick him again, but then his fist slammed into her eye and upper cheek. She gasped with the pain of it and he grunted in satisfaction.

Then he picked her head up and slammed it against the unforgiving ground. Windblade’s vision darkened as she searched for anything she could use, anything she could throw to stop him. He slammed her head down again, and agony rang in her head. She could feel him pushing her legs apart and tearing at her riding skirt.

He was going to make this hurt, she thought numbly. Because I fought him, he’s going to make it hurt. And there’s no Elita to save me this time.

She heard his wheeze as he went onto his knees, and that was when Windblade’s hand, still questing for a weapon without her conscious knowledge, locked onto the hilt of the knife. Concentration, muddled by the three successive injuries, sharpened as she pulled the knife free of the blanket, and just as her attacker lined to do his worst, she sat up with the knife, and he thrust his groin onto the waiting knife.

All six inches of blade disappeared into his flesh, and he screamed. With angry vindictiveness, she twisted the blade until he screamed again. Blood gushed from the wound, but she hadn’t struck an artery. Yet.

The sound of the tent flap being torn open made her look up. Her left eye was already swelling, but through her good right eye, she could see Prowl was part of the ‘helping’ force, with his sword out. She swallowed the hysterical laughter that wanted to escape and instead glared up at Prowl. “Is this your discipline?” She indicated the writhing Impactor. “To set a known rapist as a guard on a hostage?”

“I didn’t—.”

Windblade pushed herself to her feet with difficulty. She swayed, but she caught herself on the tent pole instead of relying on Prowl’s outstretched hand. “Captain Springer’s own soldiers referred to him as such in my presence,” she said clearly. “Did you intend for this to happen? So that you could play hero?” She summoned just enough saliva to spit at his feet. “You were too late.”

“He dishonored you?”

The only other time Windblade remembered feeling this angry was when Hot Shot had set her on fire. She burned, almost literally. “As if I give _anyone_ the power to dishonor me with their own behavior,” she snapped. She strode from the tent to see that most of the 7,000 soldiers had gathered around her tent while the drama had played out.

Impactor’s blood gave her what she needed. As long as she had his blood, she could command his body, and she did, removing Impactor from the tent to rest in the packet dirt of the sudden circle. “This is the serpent your commander set upon me,” she told the assembled company. She could see them shuffle. The firelight was bright enough to see her rising bruises. “I am a hostage, guaranteed by the Tyrest Accord to be treated well and protected, but in an attempt to win my gratitude and loyalty, your commander attempted to have me raped.”

The crowd was silent. She sensed that they were not on her side, and she tried one last time to get them to _see_. “Is this the one you are willing to serve?” she asked them. “Someone who would have an innocent assaulted in order to gain an edge over the enemy, on your own ground?”

There were mutters at that, but nothing as dramatic as what she had hoped for. Prowl—when had he exited behind her?—grabbed her arm and towed her off in the direction of the command tent. “The play is over for the evening,” he shouted. “Return to your posts.”

The speed at which he was moving was making it hard for her to focus, but when he threw her into the command tent, it returned. Windblade knew the feeling—her magic was pushing off the effects of her injury because she was being threatened, but as soon as she felt safe, she would pay for it.

“Did you think it would be so easy to spur them into mutiny?” he spat at her.

“You are not well loved,” Windblade shot back. “Even I could see that. Threatening and assaulting a hostage was made anathema for a _reason_.”

She was surprised for the second time that day when Prowl gave in to his temper and punched her. Not in the eye, thank Solus, but it landed squarely on her nose. She heard the bone break and blood rolled down the back of her throat. She heaved at the sensation, and Prowl reared back in disgust as bile mixed with blood splashed over his boots.

Everything hurt, but she needed just a little bit longer of focus, please Solus. Grant her this.

The pain turned into anger, and anger she could use. “A commander that would arrange for a hostage to be raped is a commander who would massacre a village of innocent, neutral healers. Primus waits in judgement for you, and you will be found wanting.”

“What are you talking about?” Prowl hissed. “I didn’t arrange for your rape and I certainly did not order a massacre.”

“Prion? Of course you did,” Windblade wiped her top lip carefully. “You discussed the planning of a massacre at Iacon with me. Of course you’re capable of it. Prion is now a smoking ruin. Let me guess, they _also_ turned you down and you couldn’t have that. Just as you suspected I would turn you down, so you arranged for Impactor to rape me so that you could engender my gratitude.”

“I did not engineer your rape!” Prowl exploded.

Windblade glared at him. “You may not have given him the orders, but he’s an opportunist who hates nobility. You knew he would. It’s the same thing. Did you do the same to Prion? Allow for your soldiers to massacre and loot because that’s what soldiers do when spurned?”

“I am not guilty of Prion,” Prowl said through gritted teeth. “As for your rape—everyone knows what Impactor is.”

The candle flames in the tent surged with Windblade’s temper, but Prowl didn’t notice. “He’s one of our oldest veterans, but I told him he would be watched over for any instances of misbehavior,” he continued. “Of _any_ kind. I would show no mercy if he broke that sacred bond, I told him. The fact that he did so _is not my fault_.”

He was lying—his heartbeat told her that, but it provided a moment of clarity for her. What did she want from this exchange? Prowl was never going to admit he set Impactor on her. He had to say that, or he really _would_ face a mutiny.

He has to have the Carcer documentation in here somewhere, she reminded herself. If Carcer’s been sending regular amounts of money, it would come to him regardless of where he was.

She reached out and snapped her fingers in front of his face. He dropped into a dead sleep, helped along by his own exhaustion. Impactor had not been exhausted. The same sleep spell would not work on him, and anything more complicated than that needed more time to set up, and she had focused those efforts on something more powerful.

Behind his desk, she saw that his drawers were locked with a blood spell. Clever of him, but she knew how to undo them. She stood up to look over his desk. If he had to use his blood every time to open a drawer, he would keep—ah, there it was.

Windblade grabbed the small vial of sealant potion and sat down to start on the drawers.

Using his index finger, where the callus was strongest, she pricked his finger with the spell lock. It turned red as it accepted the small sacrifice, and the drawers of the desk made a small popping noise as they opened. When she looked through them, she found that the first drawer was filled with mixed coins and stamps. The stamps were genuine, and from the looks of it, she would say that’s what he paid his couriers with.

The second drawer down was filled with files named for different plans. She didn’t have time to study them. Anyone could burst in on Prowl, and she needed to have her information before that happened.

Finally, the third drawer had what she was looking for. Leather envelopes containing missives and dispatches from other countries filled it, and the fourth file was the Carcer file. It was heavier and bulged at the seams in the way the other files did not. She took a risk and stuck the whole file underneath her outer shirt, held in place by her coat and its belt. She closed the drawer and dabbed sealant onto the small injury on Prowl’s finger.

She glanced around the room and hurried over to an open chest where she could see clothing. She found a pair of leggings that were just a little too short but otherwise comfortable, and those replaced her ruined riding skirt. At the reminder, her breath caught in her chest with anger, but she wasn’t done yet.

Tapping into her magic with a black eye, broken nose, and injured head was a risk, but she needed to build up the power just a little more before she could activate it.

Solus had clearly assisted there, because the magic of the land itself was weaving itself into her working. No matter Prowl’s words, Solus was clearly offended at the desecration of the hostage protection, a custom enshrined into law by the Tyrest Accord. And Solus had brought that offense and hardened it into something Windblade could use.

She made a mental note to leave prayers for her Prime later, if she survived the night.

The working was ready, and with the flick of her magic, she ignited it. Her magic raced across the lines she had created earlier that night, between the soup pots that had fed the majority of those 7,000 soldiers (thank Solus for talkative cooks who complained about the numbers of soldiers they had to feed and clean up after) to the stones the Autobots had set up for protection but were now turning against them.

Squad by squad, the soldiers, cooks, dishwashers, healers, and clerks fell asleep, no matter what they were doing. Windblade marked some boundaries carefully, so that most in the infirmary wouldn’t die for lack of treatment as long as the sleep spell lasted and that the fires wouldn’t break out of control. She had set in a time limit of six hours. She had to find Starscream and use those six hours before Prowl woke up and sent someone after them.

She left the tent and whistled for her pony, who had managed to free himself from his hitching post. He trotted to her, trailing the hitching reins, and she hugged him before carefully mounting up. As she turned her pony to ride up the ridge, she saw that Prime watching her. Of course her spell wouldn’t affect him. Sleep spells only affected the living.

He started to run toward her, but she nudged her pony up the ridge and away from him. He would have no luck finding a horse to carry him. They were asleep took. Her pony was free of the spell because her own magic had marked him.

Then, not quite in triumph, Windblade rode away from the enemy camp and toward where she suspected Starscream was waiting for her. Hopefully she would reach him before her head exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know that was a lot to put on all of you in one chapter. I'd like to hear what you have to say. After I post the next chapter, I have some commentary on some of the issues I brought up and I'll post it on my writing tumblr


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that last chapter was a doozy, eh? I'll have some commentary up at my [writing tumblr](inkfic.tumblr.com) soon, probably tomorrow or the day after. 
> 
> So when I was initially planning the aftermath, this is not what I anticipated. I know that [Deus Ex Machina](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/DeusExMachina) is frowned upon, and I even agree with it! So please believe me when I say these two characters _insisted_ on showing up and reminding you that there are other stories going on, though I might never write them. We'll see. For me to finish their story, I'd have to go to the DJD place and I'm not really that interested in that. 
> 
> Worldbuilding happens in this chapter! I'm excited about it. Tell me your thoughts--I love to hear them.

**CHAPTER NINETEEN: THE STRONGEST TISSUE ARE THE SCARS**

_January 25-27, 1037_

_Sigma Forest, Cybertron_

Starscream expected no less of Windblade when she rode up to him with the promise that the Autobot military would be detained in following them for at least two days. “Did you kill them?”

She gave him a look as she pulled her horse to a stop. “Would I do that?”

“So then how did you do it?” He peered at her. The forest and the night came together to create some really shitty lighting, but he could see she was swaying in the saddle. Her face didn’t look right. “Talk them to sleep or something?”

“Something.” As he approached, she swayed more until she toppled out of the saddle. He rushed to her side and caught her before she fell to the ground. He understood why her face looked so strange when he had her in his arms—her nose was blue and swollen, and she had a black eye.

A broken nose wouldn’t cause her to fall from the saddle, and when he checked her head, he found blood on the back of her scalp. She whined low in her throat when he touched her, and for a moment, something very much like panic rocked through him. A head injury was beyond his capabilities, and she couldn’t be left alone in this forest with an open wound. She didn’t have the ability to pacify any predator that might come for her.

There was one last thing he could try, but it burned his pride to do it. Then he looked down at Windblade, when she had risked her life to keep him from falling into the Autobots’ hands, and his pride was a worthy sacrifice for that. For her.

He rocked on his feet as he heard another _crack!_ but he had to ignore it for the moment. He dragged Windblade to where he had set up camp and laid her down. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “We gotta go.”

“Not with your head wound,” he told her. “We’ve got time to get help.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, and he tapped her arm. “None of that. You fall asleep, you never wake up again.”

Her eyes opened to half-mast. “What are you going to do?”

He always traveled with the raw materials that made colored flares. “During the war, occasionally things would happen that would cause you to need a medic, regardless of the side either of you were on.” He started to pull together the supplies to create a green flare. “It was a promise that as long as they helped, you wouldn’t attack them after. I’m hoping that there’s someone who still knows it and is close by.”

Windblade raised herself on one elbow and gave him a small smile that turned into a wince. “ _You’re_ hoping?”

“It’s your influence,” he said. “Making me think that I can do more than just what I can do. Sickening, really.”

“When I feel better, I’m going to laugh at you. Gently.”

“You do that,” he muttered as he took a flint and struck it to the flare. The small flare shot upward and exploded in green above them. Starscream sat down next to her. “While we wait, tell me what happened.”

She reached for his hand. He let her. “Prowl wanted me on his side, for me to stand aside so that they could kill you. I wasn’t sure—that’s what I told him—so he decided to create a scenario where I would trust him.” She sighed. “It didn’t work. I saw through it.”

“That’s what led to your injuries?”

“There was a threat. I defended myself.”

Starscream stiffened. “Windblade—.”

“You’re lucky we were close,” said someone Starscream knew. “That we hadn’t gone to the west yet.” There was a snort. “Did she get on the wrong side of your temper, Starscream?”

Starscream turned around to glare at Ratchet. “This is not my work.”

“He’s right, Ratch’,” said someone else Starscream knew—much better than the former Autobot medic. Deadlock grinned at him. “If Starscream hurt someone that bad, they usually ended up dead.”

Starscream reached for a sword, and Deadlock held up his hands. “Peace, Starscream. I’m not that person anymore.”

“Found a way around Megatron’s curse, then?”

“Something like that.” Deadlock looked between the two. “Why don’t we take a walk and leave Ratchet to take care of her?”

“How do you know it’s a her?” Starscream demanded.

“Lucky guess,” Ratchet snorted. “Go away, Starscream. Let me take care of her. She’s got a bad brain bleed that’s getting worse.”

Starscream stood up, but there was one thing. “Ratchet—she told me once, her magic runs funny when it comes to healings. You can fix her, but it’s like her mind remembers that she was injured and still makes her go through the standard recovery period.”

Ratchet nodded. “I know how to work around that. Go _away_ and let me do my work.”

Starscream, still unwilling, followed after Deadlock as Ratchet bent over Windblade. They weren’t too far from the forest boundary, so Deadlock let him to the bluff that overlooked the dead grey fields. “You broke your curse?” Starscream asked abruptly when they stopped. “But Megatron _named_ you.”

“I had to completely reinvent myself, even rename myself. I couldn’t keep anything that belonged to him.” Deadlock sat down on a log. “I returned to my first name, the one Ratchet knew. I’m Drift now.”

“Deadlock’s better.”

“You _would_ think that.” Deadlock looked sideways at him. “So, one ex-Decepticon to another, why haven’t you broken your curse yet? I know you know how. Curses always have a breaking point. No witch is strong enough to create one that lasts in perpetuity.”

“I don’t know how,” Starscream said.

“What did Megatron tell you when he cursed you?”

“That’s not exactly the greatest memory for me,” Starscream told him.

Deadlock rolled his eyes. “Try again.”

Starscream fell silent as he pulled his memories into some kind of order. He wouldn’t speak of it to anyone, but Deadlock _had_ been cursed by Megatron, and had successfully deserted. Even Megatron’s pet justiciars couldn’t track him. Perhaps he could know something that helped. “He said—that as long as I loved no one and nothing, that my heart would be as devoid of life as the land surrounding Iacon.”

“That’s not exactly what he said,” Deadlock said.

“Cut me a break, _Deadlock_ , it’s damn personal!” Starscream snapped.

“Fine, don’t tell me everything.” Deadlock took a breath. “And I’d really appreciate it if you called me Drift.” He caught and held Starscream’s gaze, and there was something about those clear, almost colorless eyes that made him feel something he hadn’t in a long time.

“Fine. Drift.”

“So he cursed your heart, then?” Drift tapped his chin. “That’s harder.”

“Harder? What the hell does that mean?”

“When Megatron cursed me, he cursed my soul. Hearts are harder to fix.”

Starscream was lost. “What’s the difference?”

“To you, very little. To me? Everything. The soul is the basis of everything we are. When you curse the soul, you turn that person into what you want them to be. Megatron needed a weapon who was loyal to him alone, so here I am.” Drift spread his hands apart. “His biggest mistake was getting tired of me and placing me under Turmoil.”

“I’m not interested in your personal history,” Starscream said. “What does this have to do with me?”

“You might do better to be interested in others’ personal history,” Drift said idly. “But point taken. To curse the heart—the heart is _why_ you are the way you are. It’s how you experience the world, and it informs the soul in who you will be. Everyone is shaped by their experiences.” He nodded to Starscream’s neck, where the scar was hidden by his scarf. “Who would you be without that?”

“So, to curse the heart…”

“To curse the heart is to curse someone not to fully understand their experiences and change because of them. You were untrusting and had a temper—the curse only amplifies that. It doesn’t let you change. It doesn’t allow you to _grow_.” Drift bowed his head. “Far worse happened to you than to me.”

“I,” Starscream hesitated. “He cursed for me to have a frozen heart. But I’ve been hearing this cracking noise lately. No one else hears it.”

Drift sat upright. “A cracking noise? When does it happen?”

“The first time, it happened when,” Starscream’s pride argued with his next choice of words, and lost. “I had to say goodbye to my cat before we left for Caminus. He was an abandoned kitten that Windblade rescued, and the kitten chose me for whatever reason.”

“You’re probably as contrary as the kitten is.”

Starscream ignored that unhelpful comment and continued, “He, ah, snuggled into me the night before we left, and I realized I would miss his company and his presence when I left. That was the first crack.”

“And the next?”

“They had to do with—why does the context matter?”

“The context matters,” Drift said, unperturbed, “because the context has to with the conditions of the curse. If you felt cracks in occasions when you would normally feel affection or…stronger emotions, that’s the key to defeating it. When I was laboring to break my own curse, my affection for my teacher helped me. I know that Megatron believed that love was a weakness, but I found it helpful when it came time to break the most negative of magic.”

“So you’re saying true love is the answer?” Starscream scoffed.

Once again, Drift caught and held his gaze. “Is that such a ridiculous notion?”

“Yes. True love doesn’t exist. Unconditional love doesn’t exist. Everything has conditions—everyone has things they won’t accept.”

“You’re right on one thing,” Drift said quietly. “Unconditional love doesn’t exist. It shouldn’t. But true love? You’re wrong there. I don’t travel with Ratchet just as his guard.”

Starscream blinked. “But I thought he hated you. Deadlock took too many lives.”

“You’re right, he hates Deadlock. Me? It took him some time, but he realized that I’m not the person I was. I worked hard not to be.” Drift lifted his chin. “If Ratchet can overcome that, then…”

“If you finish that statement with ‘then I am capable of finding it too,’” Starscream said, “then I’m going to hit you because of the sheer amount of saccharine in it.”

Drift laughed. “Whether you like it or not, Starscream, love is the key to breaking your curse. Maybe that’s why Megatron set it as the answer. He knew you value your pride too much to give in to someone else.”

Starscream scowled at him. It sounded true, but it was irritating. Even before his curse, he hadn’t been interested in true love. Megatron would have killed anyone who came between them, anyway.

Drift’s face lit up. “Ratchet. How is she?”

Starscream turned to look at the medic, who sat down on Drift’s other side. “She’ll live. She’s sleeping now. What happened to her was not pretty—if I had to guess, it was Impactor or one of his ‘friends.’”

Starscream tensed. “She was—?”

“No. But her injuries are consistent with someone trying to subdue her.” Ratchet snorted. “She wears a contraceptive charm in her hair, so I suspect _someone_ taught her how to defend her honor.”

Starscream felt no surprise at that revelation. Windblade had struck him as the careful sort. “How long will she sleep?”

“A few hours. Part of it wasn’t just the shock of her injuries—she was emotionally traumatized as well.” Ratchet glared at him. “Don’t make it worse.”

“I’m going to go check on her,” Starscream said as he scrambled to his feet. “I’d appreciate privacy.”

He went back down the path, and Ratchet leaned against Drift. “What’s that about?”

“True love,” Drift said comfortably. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

—

Windblade woke up with expectations of a headache that never materialized. She blinked at the bright sunlight poking through the trees, and there was someone sitting next to her with her wrist in their hand. They were checking…her pulse.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” the person said. “Do you remember me?”

She started the slow process of sitting upright. “No…should I?”

“It’s a side-effect of the healing,” they said. “My name is Ratchet, I’m a medic.”

She felt her nose. It didn’t hurt.

“It’s all healed,” Ratchet told her. “No more bruises or cuts. And you won’t be feeling the after-effects, either. Starscream told me about that.”

Windblade looked at them in a panic. “He told you what my power is?”

“No, he didn’t, but when I worked on you, I guessed. There hasn’t been anyone like you before, has there?”

“It’s a little lonely,” she admitted. “I’ve had to figure everything out as I go.” Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them away.

Ratchet patted her hand. “You’re trying to bring life back to Iacon, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “That’s why we went to Vector Sigma.”

“Did you get something to help?”

“I think so, but—we have to fight off the Autobots first.” She sighed. “How can I thank you for saving my life?”

Ratchet cleared their throat. “It’s an old bargain,” they muttered. “There’s nothing to thank me for.”

“There is,” Windblade insisted. An impulse made her reach for the old medic’s hand and hold it. “Come to Iacon. Make your home with us.”

“I foreswore city living a long time ago,” Ratchet said, “but thank you.”

Windblade hesitated. “Is there anything I can do for you? Share medicines or food supplies?”

“You carry medicines?”

“I can’t heal, but I can brew,” Windblade said with an attempt at cheerfulness. “It’s the standard kit, nothing special, but if I’m carrying anything you need, you can take it.”

“It’s in your saddlebags?”

“Yes, the green-stained pouch.” Windblade started to stretch, but was brought short by the leather envelope still in her coat. “If you pass me the saddlebag, I can get it for you.”

Ratchet brought her the saddlebag, and she found her healer’s bag quickly. She passed it over, and when Ratchet turned their back to examine the contents, she slipped the leather envelope into the open saddlebag. She wasn’t ready to confront the truth contained in those dispatches.

Ratchet muttered inaudibly over the clinking of the bottles. “These are very good, but I don’t recognize some of the herbs in the potions.”

“Some are local to Caminus,” Windblade explained.

“May I take the calendula ointment? I’m running low on my version.”

“Please, feel free,” Windblade assured Ratchet. “I’ve ordered my guard to collect the flower and seeds so that I can continue to make it.”

“Thank you.” Ratchet turned to look at her. “You’re not at all what I expected.”

“The princess or the cityspeaker?” Windblade asked with a weary laugh.

“Anyone allied with Starscream has no business being as polite as you.”

Windblade laughed for real. “He can be very…tart, can’t he.”

“Tart’s not the half of it.” Ratchet offered her a bowl full of something liquid. “Bone broth. You need your strength.”

Windblade drank it as Ratchet checked her pulse and the back of her skull. “How bad were my head injuries?” she asked as the medic finished their checks. “I knew they were bad, but my magic pushed off the effects of the injuries while I was in danger.”

Ratchet sat back on their haunches. “You had a skull fracture and brain bleed. Let me guess, your attacker tried to beat you into submission.”

“I fought back,” Windblade said, hunching her shoulders as she remembered what happened. “It was very grim for a moment, but I was able to grab the knife Springer gave to me and I used it where it mattered.”

“Springer gave it to you?” Ratchet had a strange look.

“Yes—does that mean something?”

“For Springer to turn against Prowl—I think you had best join the three of us and tell us everything.” Ratchet helped her up. “Come to the fire.”

Windblade hung back when she saw the warrior in grey with a great sword, but Ratchet nudged her forward. “I know he looks scary, but Drift wouldn’t harm you,” Ratchet said with a touch of sarcasm.

“I recognize the sword,” Windblade said as she sat down next to Starscream. “It’s designed off the Star Saber, isn’t it?”

“With a little less ornamentation. Why does it make you nervous?” The warrior in grey—Drift—offered her a gentle smile.

“The Order that reveres that sword has a nasty reputation.”

“They did. They’ve undergone some—rehabilitation in recent years,” Drift said. “It helped that the current leader deposed the former. How do you know of it?”

“As fascinating as this is,” Ratchet interrupted, “that’s not important.” Ratchet smiled at Windblade. “Start from the beginning.”

She glanced at Starscream. “He’s all right,” Starscream said. “He hates Prowl as much as I do.”

So the whole story—with one notable admission—came out. Prowl’s offer, Springer’s dagger, the final argument with Prowl before she triggered the sleep spell. Once she finished. Starscream stood up and walked away. The temperature dropped, and although Ratchet was warmly dressed, Drift’s clothes were thin. She fed more magic into the crystals of the fire and was grateful when her head didn’t attempt to revolt.

Starscream returned. “The Prime called me _Oathbreaker?!_ ”

“What does that mean?” Windblade asked.

“There’s only one Prime that ever called me Oathbreaker, and that was a lie,” Starscream spat. “So this is Prowl’s grand plan—use Sentinel Prime to end the entire political faction that he caused in the first place.”

Windblade looked at the intent, angry faces around the fire. “I don’t understand.”

“The problems began long before Sentinel Prime,” Ratchet pointed out, “but he was the catalyst for the Decepticons, that’s true.”

“Windblade,” Drift said, completely ignoring the crosstalk between Ratchet and Starscream, “the structure of prewar Cybertron was a series of smaller territories that owed homage to the main city of Iacon. The northern cities were more integrated because they were in the empire longer, but the southern territories fought the longest and were the most resistant to the system of homage.”

“All right,” Windblade said, immediately reading between the lines. “The southern territories were prone to revolts that had to be put down, so the government had a heavier presence there, didn’t they? Which only caused more issues.”

“When I was eleven,” Starscream said, “there was an outbreak of rice water fever. It usually accompanied the monsoons so we weren’t prepared for an outbreak in the dry season. My parents had died of red pox years earlier, but my surrogates passed in that epidemic.”

Windblade reached for him, but he avoided her touch. “I was crowned Prince of Vos on my twelfth birthday with a regency council—but only because my regents had died. The monsoons, when they came, were the worst in twenty years and swept away so much of the city—the buildings, the grain stores…so many people died.” He bowed his head. “We needed help, and so I sent an appeal to Iacon for supplies and extra hands. That request was never answered, and the fatality count was rising. I had to go to them myself, I made the appeal on the Senate floor, and then Prowl,” never had a name been such a curse, “stood up and asked the Senate why they must spend their money to rebuild a city that never gave them anything in return but violent uprisings.”

Ratchet nodded. “It was one of the most immoral acts of the Senate that I witnessed as a Senator. A child was on the floor, begging for help, and led by Prowl, the Senate turned its back on that need. I went to every Senator and collected as many donations as I could, but…” he looked at Starscream.

“All of the food that came from Iacon was laced with the black rot,” Starscream said.

Windblade stiffened. The black rot was notorious for how it killed its victims. It ate through the stomach, and then the poisons in the stomach would be released into the bloodstream. “How could—?”

“It was the best way for finishing a troublesome population,” Starscream said tiredly. “They didn’t succeed, because the population of Tarn and Kaon collectively revolted and made their way to us.”

“Tarn and Kaon,” Drift picked up the thread of the narrative easily, “were turned into punishment colonies for dissidents. When they—we—heard about what was happening in Vos, Megatron rallied us to go to their aid. We marched across the southern reaches until we arrived, where we helped rebuild and turn out the Iacon Watch.”

“Then tax time came,” Starscream said. “We received a summons for our usual taxes. Even if we had been willing to pay them, our coffers were empty for everything it took just keep my people alive. I sent a refusal. That wasn’t allowed.”

“They sent an armed response, didn’t they,” Windblade guessed. “With Sentinel Prime at the head of it.”

“And when he arrived at the newly-repaired walls of Vos, he read out a litany of crimes against me, including labeling me as a Oathbreaker,” Starscream confirmed. “He was the only one who ever called me that. Even Megatron preferred ‘traitor.’”

“So what does this mean? Will people follow Sentinel?” Windblade asked. “I mean, I thought he was pure poison, but, I’m biased.” She lifted her shoulder in a shrug.

Starscream snorted. “You would be, and no, Sentinel was hugely unpopular even before his Vosian misadventure. I am curious why Prowl chose him. Some of the other true Primes, like Nova or Guardian, would command respect.”

“That’s likely why,” Ratchet said, in deep thought. “Prowl was Sentinel’s second in all but name. They worked closely together when Prowl was the Lord Justiciar of Praxus and later as a senator, and Prowl was the second in command whenever Sentinel rode out. He probably thought he could control Sentinel.”

“He can’t,” Windblade said with certainty. “No one believes that the Prime is Optimus. He doesn’t have the presence, or so I overheard. Moreover, the way the Prime just appeared is also highly suspicious. The only reason why they follow Prowl is because they think you’re worse.” She looked at Starscream. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I’m used to Autobots thinking I’m the worst.”

“They have a reason for that,” Drift said pointedly.

Starscream pointed at him. “Says Megatron’s personal executioner.”

“I’m _not_ that person anymore!”

“Enough,” Windblade said. “It doesn’t seem fair to wage war on people who are only doing it because they hate you,” she said to Starscream. “Again. Sorry.”

“I can assure you, they will think it more than fair.” Starscream looked at Ratchet and Drift. “Are you getting back in the game, then? Hearing Prowl’s crimes?”

Drift looked at Ratchet. “It’s your call. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

Ratchet looked into the fire, and Windblade knew what his answer was going to be. “No,” Ratchet said quietly. “I won’t help you, but I won’t help him either. We’re tracking someone, actually, and that’s important too.”

“How?” Starscream asked with exasperation.

“It’s Prion, what happened to Prion. You’re tracking the perpetrators.” Windblade looked at Ratchet. “So it wasn’t the Autobots.”

“It was _an_ Autobot,” Ratchet said. “You might have heard of him—Pharma?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of him. Why would he attack a village of healers?”

“Pharma’s magic has gone strange during his ‘imprisonment’,” Ratchet said with deep loathing. “So has he. I intend to get the full answer once we catch up to him, but it is crucial that we do before he contacts what remains of the DJD.”

Starscream stilled. “They’re still alive?”

“Some of them,” Drift said. “Their loyalty to Megatron protected them from the backlash of Megatron’s death. As long as they don’t acknowledge that he’s died, they remain. It doesn’t help that you burned Megatron’s body.”

“It was the best way I could be sure Megatron was truly never coming back,” Starscream snapped. “Not all of us have that mysterious Order of yours to shield ourselves.”

“Is this useful?” Windblade asked them both. She turned back to Ratchet. “I understand you have a mission, but if you knew a healer who was currently unattached, there is a village on the east boundary line of the forest that has a terrible healer who remains in power because of his affiliation with the local bandit population. If you could—.”

“We ran into that village about a week ago,” Ratchet said. “He _really_ didn’t like you, if you're the one he was ranting about.. I’ve already sent a message to one of my former students who’s been looking for a posting. She’ll do fine there.”

“Thank you.” Windblade fed more heat into the crystals that made up the fire. “And after you’ve dispatched Pharma…?”

“Not really planning anything beyond that at the moment,” Drift said. “I had the misfortune to meet him once. Wily doesn’t even _begin_ to describe him. He has this annoying tendency to survive. Anything.”

Windblade nodded. “I understand.” She looked past them to see that the sun was almost directly overhead. “Starscream, if we’re going to make Iacon by tomorrow, we should go.”

Starscream looked at her. “Why so eager?”

“Because that sleep spell is due to wear off tomorrow morning, and I would like as much distance as possible between the Autobot encampment and us as we can manage.” She looked to Ratchet. “Am I safe to ride?”

“You’ll have some spells of nausea and dizziness,” Ratchet informed her. “Can’t do anything about that, and you really shouldn’t get hit on the head in the next month or so, but other than that, you’re cleared.” He waved a hand at her. “Go forth and be—yourself, I suppose.”

Windblade gifted him with a smile and then returned her gaze to Starscream. “Well?”

He smirked at her. “After you, my lady.”

—

_January 29, 1037_

_Iacon, Cybertron_

Thundercracker sat down next to Marissa as she poured cream into her hot tea. Where she came from, they deliberately overstepped the tea to be able to add cream to it for an extra bit of protein. Thundercracker refused to understand it. “Did you sleep well? You were gone when I woke up.”

“Captain Chromia runs a predawn practice. She’s not handy with a sword, but with her halberd she’s frightening.” Marissa stirred her tea. “I slept all right, but I’m not psychic like your people.”

“Have you been having bad dreams again?”

Marissa shrugged. “It feels more like a warning than a nightmare. I’m not sure why.” She sipped her tea and reached for the sugar bowl. “Have you been getting visions or whatever?”

“I’m not magical that way,” Thundercracker dismissed. “But we all feel uneasy. Knowing that the Autobots are coming and Starscream isn’t here…it makes me nervous.”

Marissa leaned against him. “We’ll manage.”

One of the messengers from the auxiliary guards knocked on the open door, and Marissa straightened as Thundercracker turned to the messenger. “Yes?”

“It’s Lord Starscream,” the messenger gasped, “he’s back.”

Thundercracker rose immediately and left the room. Marissa took the trouble to put down her tea cup before following him out.

By the time she had caught up with her husband, they were in the main entrance hall, where two dirty and exhausted figures were handing off baggage to waiting staff. The taller of the two—slightly—turned toward her and Thundercracker, and from the scars on their face, it had to be Starscream. Marissa bowed, but Starscream’s eyes were for the now-fluffy cinnamon-and-white cat who bounded between Thundercracker’s legs to slide to a stop at Starscream’s feet. “Mau,” Starscream murmured in a rasp as he bent down to pick up the cat. Mau, the troublesome stinker, purred up a storm and tucked his head into Starscream’s shoulder.

“I’ve never been overlooked for a _cat_ before,” Thundercracker remarked.

Starscream made a face at him. “It’s been a long journey, and you don’t purr.”

“No, that would be disturbing,” Thundercracker agreed. “Princess Windblade?”

The shorter of the two was even dirtier than Starscream, but even under the dirt and windburn on her face, white tattoos stood out vividly on her brown face. “I’m sorry,” the princess replied in a voice that creaked with tiredness. “I’m looking for my guard and herald, Chromia—?”

“She’s in your rooms, assisting your staff with assembling your suite,” Marissa said. “We only just got the news of your arrival ourselves, otherwise we might have assembled a more formal reception committee.”

Thundercracker gave her a look, but she ignored him. Starscream, still holding Mau, looked her over. “Thundercracker, I believe introductions are overdue.”

Thundercracker took her hand and bowed to his brother. “Starscream, may I introduce my lady wife, Marissa Fairborn, formally of the Discordancy Commonwealth? Lady Marissa, my brother, Lord Starscream of Cybertron.”

Marissa pointed a finger at her husband. “I don’t like to be called _Lady_ , and you know it.” She looked at Starscream and Princess Windblade, both of whom were bemused at her response. “In DC, I earned my commander’s stripes,” she explained. “That was how I met Thundercracker. Ladies were people of leisure who ate finger sandwiches and contributed nothing of importance.”

There was a snort that Marissa was fairly sure came from Windblade. “Commander would appear to be the correct term. What title does that come with?” the princess inquired.

“Commander is fine, or ma’am,” Marissa answered. “And you?”

“Publicly, ‘Your Highness’ or ‘My lady princess’ are acceptable. In private, Windblade is fine.” The princess offered her hands, which Marissa took. The princess squeezed them before letting them go. “If we are to be sisters, we should call each other by our names.”

“Then you must call me Marissa,” Marissa said with a smile. She could understand why Thundercracker was so flummoxed by the princess’ character. Something about the lady refused definition. “I think I will steal you away so that the brothers can speak. On the way, we can order a bath.”

“Oh excellent,” Windblade replied. “I fear I’m leaving a trail behind me.”

Marissa couldn’t help the giggle. “Was it too cold to wash?”

“Partially,” Windblade said as they traveled up the stairs. “But we moved as quickly as we could.” She glanced at Marissa with some confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know where the Discordancy Commonwealth is.”

“We just call it DC,” Marissa said lightly, “on account of that our government is infamous for its polarization. It’s far to the west. Very far. So far, that the rumors of our government’s incompetence is enough to keep diplomats away.”

“Was it a trial to leave it behind and come here?”

Marissa revised her immediate answer as she remembered that part of the marriage contract meant the princess had to give up her Camien citizenship for Cybertronian. “Not as much as you might think,” Marissa said slowly. “In the military branch I was in, there was enforced retirement after fifteen years of service. I was on year sixteen and hoping they wouldn’t notice when I met Thundercracker. As long as I would be there, I would tempted to act to change its politics, and it’s a breath of relief to come here and just be able to work without having to worry about offending a Lieutenant General because I had to jump over their head to get an aid package—sorry, you don’t need to know that. Thundercracker has already arranged for me to become Commander of the Guard, so I won’t feel utterly useless.”

“I understand the feeling,” Windblade murmured as they turned left from the landing on the fourth floor. “Wait, this isn’t where I stayed before.”

“No, you’ve been moved to the Consort Suite,” Marissa said.

Windblade looked at her, and Marissa was surprised at the depth of feeling in those very blue eyes. “Does that offend you? I’m certain I can move elsewhere,” she said.

“No, I’m all right,” Marissa assured her. “This entire floor is the family wing. Thundercracker and me are further down.” She pointed, and Windblade relaxed slightly. “Besides, your rooms share a connecting door with Starscream’s, and I would prefer to stay with Thundercracker.”

“…Ah.” The princess was smart enough to understand the reason for the connecting door without Marissa needing to spell it out.

“Here we are,” Marissa said as she opened the door. The suite was misnamed—while it was a series of connected rooms, it was far larger than any ‘suite’ Marissa had encountered. The entry room was a combination of a sitting room and craft room, leading into the bedchamber and its connected quarters for a chambermaid. From the bedchamber, it went to the garderobe, dressing room (and connected wardrobe), and then past it was a full study and personal library. The study and library had an exterior door, so that Windblade could hold her own audiences without having them pass through her more personal rooms.

In contrast, the rooms she and Thundercracker shared were far more private and missing the full study. Marissa preferred it. In DC, bedrooms were not for entertaining anyone but the most intimate guests.

Windblade wandered through the first room into the bedchamber, and like her guard before her, she stopped with an open mouth at the bed. “There are…cavorting creatures carved into the frame,” she said faintly.

“Supposedly,” Marissa said, proud of the amount of palace trivia she had managed to memorize since she had come to join Thundercracker, “it’s the bed where all Primes were both conceived and born.”

“Hopefully not the same mattress,” Windblade muttered.

Marissa smothered a laugh and made a mental note to tell Thundercracker later. “No, the mattress is new.”

“The bed is—huge,” Windblade said. “Much bigger than necessary for two people.” She flushed a little.

Marissa shrugged. “You’re tall and so is he. Speaking as a married woman, the first and best help for a happy marriage? Plenty of personal pillows.” She nodded to the Captain coming through the outer rooms. “Here is your captain.”

Windblade promptly forgot Marissa’s presence as she stepped forward toward Chromia, and then she decided to ignore the amount of dirt on her and threw her arms around her guard. “I missed you,” Windblade said.

Chromia hugged her back. “You should’ve let me come with you.”

Windblade shook her head. “No, you would have been in terrible danger.” She let her go. “You look good.”

Chromia rolled her eyes. “You don’t.” She looked past Windblade. “Commander.”

“Captain,” Marissa returned. “I’ll leave you two alone. Captain, I’ve ordered a hot bath for the princess.”

“Thank you,” Chromia said. Once Marissa left, Chromia frowned. “You don’t usually end up this dirty from traveling, and those riding trousers aren’t yours. They’re too short in the leg, so that leaves out Starscream.”

“It’s a long story,” Windblade said tiredly. “I promise I will tell you everything as soon as I’ve rested. And when I say everything, I _mean_ everything.” She looked around the rooms. “Where’s Aileron and Tracks?”

“They’ve both been co-opted by the siege planning committee, Aileron as clerk and Tracks as weaver. I can take them back this evening.”

Windblade waved that off. “If Lord Thundercracker finds their skills necessary, he can keep them. I don’t want to undermine the preparation effort. Is the bath ready?”

“It’s coming.” Chromia stepped forward to help Windblade pull off her nasty traveling clothes. “These are only fit to be burned—is that _blood_?”

“Later, I promise,” Windblade begged. “Please.”

Chromia nodded. “But I’m going to hold you to that.”

—

Starscream was startled by a knock on the door usually hidden by the silk hangings. Right, he remembered after a moment, Thundercracker had ordered for Windblade’s new quarters to be the Consort’s Suite. There was a connecting door. It took him another moment, but he swung his legs off the bed to open it.

Windblade held a tray full of food and she stepped past him. She smelled clean and vaguely floral, and Starscream was aware that unlike her, his responsibilities had started again as soon as he walked in the front hall. He had taken a quick bath at the palace bathhouse, but it was nothing like a long soak that Windblade had clearly enjoyed.

She turned to him. “I thought we could eat together and discuss a few things.”

He swallowed to get some saliva back into his mouth. “That seems reasonable.” He gestured for her to step into his private dining room, and he scrubbed his face with his hands before following after her. He was so _tired_ —Thundercracker had given him an exemplary report, but then Ravage needed to be seen to and then he needed to discuss things with Ultra Magnus and even now he had paperwork that still needed to be signed, encroaching army be damned.

The food Windblade was setting out were things like soup and rice, nothing too complicated or difficult to chew. She passed him a full mug of tea, and its’ sweetly floral taste helped him come into greater awareness. “What do we need to discuss tonight?” he asked after he’d drained it. “I’m tired and I don’t want to agree to anything important.”

She gave him a faint smile. “I understand. I just need to know what you want from me.”

He needed more tea, because he didn’t fully understand the request. He sat down at the table and helped himself to some rice. “What?”

“I can’t leap back into what I was doing because the space and people necessary are being utilized elsewhere,” she said. “But I would like to be useful.”

Starscream hid a yawn behind his hand as she served him soup. It was a thin soup, he noted, but heavy with ginger and garlic. “Talk to Hook,” he advised once he could move his jaw again. “You’re a nurse, I’m sure he can put you to work.”

She nodded and began to eat. He considered her for a moment and then said, “I’m sorry.”

She looked up at him in confusion. “For what?”

“For what happened when you were taken as prisoner,” he said. “When you’re in the military, there are some things you just learn to expect and survive, but it shouldn’t have happened to you.”

She cocked her head. “Things you just learn to expect? Did it happen to you?”

She had refilled his cup, and he swallowed hot tea as he tried to figure out how to best get out of the conversation he had inadvertently kick-started. “Yes.”

Monosyllabic though his answer was, it was not the conversation-ender he had hoped for. She softened. “I’m sorry.”

He waved it off. “It happened in both sides. The Autobots tried to act like they were above it, but because some of their more notorious persons could get results in the interrogation room, certain persons were willing to shield or ignore those actions.”

“You’re talking about Impactor.”

“Among others.”

“Why allow it?” she asked. “You were second in command, weren’t you? Couldn’t you have prevented it in your own faction?”

It was not going to be an answer she was going to like. “Because soldiers expect to be rewarded,” he said. “And there were plenty of commanders who felt that it helped to reinforce the hierarchy as a—a hazing exercise. Most would not even think of acting that way in peacetime, but wartime changes your perspective.”

“Is that what happened to you? Someone asserted their dominance?”

Do not, _do not_ think about Megatron. “What about you?” he asked instead. “Those anarchists didn’t just beat you, did they?” He didn’t know where the question came from, but it solidified the suspicions he had had since hearing about the interest Elita-One had in Windblade and the bits and pieces of it Windblade had alluded to and discussed.

Windblade swirled her spoon in her soup before she met his eyes. “Chromia and I had practiced the maneuver for weeks—that when I was in danger, she would find an exit and spirit me away through it. Only in the exit she chose when the anarchists decided to crash the reception that was supposed to celebrate the treaty-signing, they had decided to plant one of their agents in each of the exits of that ballroom. Chromia was knocked out, and I had no weapons on me. I was nearly—Elita stopped it. She found us and stopped it.”

“Convenient,” Starscream said, forgetting for a moment to whom he was speaking. “Did she plan it?”

Windblade stared at him with her mouth open. After a moment, she regained herself and said, “No. At least, I hope not.”

“Rape is a weapon of war,” Starscream told her. “It always has been. It’s a tool that can be used to break the back of a resistance or threaten a recalcitrant population of the consequences of remaining recalcitrant. Maybe Elita needed you grateful to her. I guess she got that.”

“Did you give the Havoc order at Praxus?” she asked abruptly with an unexpected flare of temper. He could see it in her eyes and how her cheeks reddened. The question and her anger briefly robbed him of words, but he finally found some.

“How did you—?”

“How I found out doesn’t matter, but your answer does.”

“No,” he said finally. “Megatron did. Army scuttlebutt later said it was me, and Megatron supported it because it was something he could use against me to keep me in line, should I ever try to overthrow him. I would have given the order, though,” he told her seriously. “Praxus was a grudge match.”

“What do you mean?”

“When the Iacon Watch was posted throughout Vos, most of the Watch came from Praxus, since that was where the military academy was. Later, when Sentinel Prime decided to invade us to bring us back under Senate control, it was with a primarily Praxian army with Prowl at the head. They had a well-deserved reputation for being terrible to the people they were posted to watch. Even if we had wanted to keep the army in line, I doubt we could have. There was too much bad blood there. The most we could do was curtail it to a day.” He shook his head, denying the urge to snarl. The anger was still too close to the surface. “They robbed us of our future. They got to learn what it felt like.”

“…Oh,” she said. The temper had faded from her face in exchange for solemn consideration. However hard he looked, he didn’t see judgement there. That didn’t mean it didn’t exist, just hidden someplace he couldn’t see it.

“I would imagine that if Caminus ever attacked the capital city of Carcer that it would be similar,” Starscream said. “After all, haven’t they been menacing your people for generations?”

“If there is something you would like to know, all you have to do is ask,” she said.

He steepled his fingers and looked at his betrothed over them. “Is there something you would like to tell me?”

“No,” she said. “It’s not relevant.”

“At least, at this moment.”

Her jaw clenched. “I am entitled to my privacy.”

“True,” he agreed, “right up until that privacy creates a problem.”

“Will you keep to the same standard?” she retorted.

He stared. It had to be due to his exhaustion; normally he would not have given her such an opening. “Things can be negotiated,” he said at last. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get some sleep.”

She rose from the table. “Likewise.”

—

Windblade hesitated briefly before knocking on the open door. She had been surprised to discover that the hospital was on palace grounds, but it made it easier to find Master Hook. One of his trainees had directed her to his office; apparently he was between training classes and an afternoon surgery and it was the best time to see him.

“Enter!” His voice was gravelly from a lifetime of near-constant yelling, and she smoothed down her robes before walking into his office.

He stood when he saw her. “Princess. Is there something you need?”

“Actually,” she tried to choose her words as carefully as she could. “I thought I might be able to help one of _your_ needs. May I sit?”

“Please,” he gestured for her to take one of the guest chairs while he sat back down in his. The guest chair was acutely uncomfortable and she sank down several inches before she managed to pick herself up and perch on the firmer edge of the chair.

“I do not know if Lord Starscream told you, but I have been trained as a nurse,” she began.

Master Hook’s face settled into stony lines. “He’s mentioned it.”

She didn’t know what his facial expression meant, but it made her uneasy. “I understand that with the expected siege that it will be an ‘all hands are necessary’ situation, and so I am offering my hands.” She looked down at her lap. “I would like to be useful,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t—I’m trained in triage, preventing contamination and I can also brew medicines. I’ve worked in emergency wards and in epidemics.” She looked up to meet Master Hook’s eyes, and his eyes weren’t changing. “Please, put me to use.”

“Princess,” he started, and Windblade stilled. She knew that tone. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m going to have to turn you down.”

“May I ask why?” she asked.

Master Hook looked away from her, and her senses pinged. He was about to lie to her. “We have enough volunteers,” he said, but he was at least attempting to be gracious. “I have my hands full. I thank you, however, and if a need arises, I will be sure to alert you.”

She didn’t fully understand why he was refusing her, when Chromia had passed on court gossip that Hook was stuck between running his usual surgery (the newly-instituted citizen military practice and training was resulting in greater numbers of injuries) and training healers and nurses. She could have taken over the training of the nurses, at least, but she understood that the hospital was his domain and while she could appeal to Starscream, Hook would never forgive her undermining of him and would become an enemy. She didn’t need any more.

“Please keep me informed,” she said as she rose. “I will be more than happy to help as needed.”

Hook offered his hand, and she took it to shake. “Thank you, my lady princess.”

She spent the trip back to her rooms in a fugue. She had always had bad spells, when she had trouble caring about things and having energy to keep to her usual routine, but she usually managed to keep it at bay when it was at its worst by keeping busy. Now even her usual tasks were beyond her, thanks to the siege preparations, and with nothing to do, she brooded.

The indignation and anger she had managed to put aside regarding her marriage negotiations came back. Her inward protests about what she and Starscream were able to accomplish when working together grew weaker and weaker as the days passed and she barely saw him, stuck as he was between Council meetings and city preparations. Her resentment quadrupled with her enforced isolation—even Chromia was gone most of the day to assist in training with Marissa, and Windblade had never been so alone before.

She enjoyed solitude, but not this much of it.

On the third day, she was seated at her writing desk (an actual desk, not Starscream’s _escritoire_ ) and organizing her correspondence. Thundercracker had sent out the announcements of the engagement a full two weeks before Windblade and Starscream arrived in Iacon, another thing that rankled—she had her own address book and would have preferred to send them out herself—but the congratulations have been slow in coming, due to winter. With each congratulatory note came a small gift, and all had to be thanked for. For the ambassadors who knew her, the gifts were personal and useful (Airazor had sent her a speciality sewing kit with pretty notions, like crystal buttons and semiprecious stones), but for those who did not, like the Descendants’ Commonwealth, it was more generic. She now had more silver plate than she knew what to do with.

In the top drawer of her desk, there was a fat leather envelope stuffed with letters from her mother, from Lightbright, and one from the Mother Superior. The latter had already been read—it was an inventory of all supplies sent from Caminus, and a postscript had confirmed what Windblade already knew: Hot Shot’s illness had made itself visible at last, and he was on strict bed rest.

She hadn’t touched the first two letters. Lightbright’s betrayal stung her more deeply than she was willing to discuss, and her anger wasn’t just directed at Starscream.

Today, however, her fingers lingered over the envelope addressed to her in her mother’s handwriting, and her curiosity and dark mood made her pick up the envelope. She slid her letter opener across the seam of the envelope, and out fell a multi-page letter.

Windblade steeled herself and opened it to the first page.

_My dearest daughter,_

_I suppose it is time to give you the explanation you so clearly crave—not just the explanation for why I have indulged all but the worst of your brother’s excesses, but even the explanation for just how you came to be and the power you possess. Fear not, my child, you are not a product of prophecy, but you were marked by Solus to be hers from birth._

_It is difficult to be a ruler and a parent. There are matters that will eat into your time with your children, no matter how pure or determined your intentions, and as a royal child, as you well know, there are expectations of behavior that are unfair for anyone else. I have striven to embrace both roles to the best of my ability, but there are times when I have come up short, especially with you. Firstborn children are often the ‘experimental’ children; there are things I learned with you so that I could be a better parent to Hot Shot and Lightbright. It is not fair to you, but there are not training classes for parenthood, especially royal parenthood. I barely saw my mother all through my growing years, and I was determined to be more of a presence in my children’s. In that, I succeeded, but for all of my intentions, I have hurt you with some of my choices and decisions, and while I cannot expect forgiveness for that, I do hope for understanding._

_You were born on the spring equinox, and for the first time in a century, there was a solar eclipse just as you came into the world. Solar eclipses, as you know, are sacred to Solus, and so there was already gossip that Solus had marked you to be special in some way. The fact that you were born with the Forge’s Mark only fanned those flames. I too had been born with the mark, as had my mother, and so on through our mother’s line. Because we are the only ones that have such a tradition, naturally the assumption is that the Mark means that Solus has chosen the next Leader of Flame, but in raising you and your siblings I have to the conclusion that it means she has marked you to rule, not necessarily just Caminus._

_You see, Lightbright was born with the Forge’s Mark as well, and she will be my successor._

_Your father loved you deeply. He had come from the artist’s guild as the Court Glassmaker, and my mother had decided to make an alliance with the guilds by arranging our marriage. I liked him well enough, and he me, but we were not in love. He spent most of his days making glass and working with the Temple to create more and more beautiful things to highlight the glory of Solus while I learned how to rule at my mother’s elbow. I ascended the Throne of Flame when you were but two, and your father was only my consort, but he preferred it that way. It meant he could spend time with you and his glass and be content._

_Then, when you were four, the First Seer came to us with a vision. You would be a great ruler, but not here, and you would leave behind a legacy of Solus that some would think that she had come again in you. At first, we were thrilled and flattered, but as the civil war in Cybertron began to get bloodier and Carcer grew more aggressive, your father grew more and more concerned for your future. Neither land was appealing to marry you to (since at the time those were the only ones we would have considered), and if you were to rule another country, we would need to have another child, and Solus was not helping us conceive._

_Finally, the tension grew too much and your father snapped. Working with some of the rogue witches that had been drummed from the Temple for blasphemy, he attempted to enact a ritual that would have stripped you of all magic in an effort to change your fate. He wanted to protect you, my darling. He wanted you to be safe and happy.Solus stepped forth and stopped him, but for the ritual to succeed, you needed to be present, and so you had to watch your father die._

_I am so, so sorry for that._

_I married your step-father not long after that—we had been friends and I liked him, and he was good with you. You needed to have a father, and I needed another child to rule after me if the First Seer was correct, and so it made the most logical sense. You had changed since your father’s death—you had been bubbly and extroverted with everyone you met, and it often amused me to see how easily you could charm the most stodgy of our courtiers simply by playing with your dolls and asking to meet every animal you came across, but your father’s death left noticeable traces. You were quieter and more reserved, and you preferred to stay to the places that you knew. It broke my heart, but that was also a season of Carcerian aggression, and so your needs were pushed aside for the country’s._

_When I became pregnant with Hot Shot—_

“—Princess! My lady princess!”

Windblade tore herself from the letter and wiped at her eyes before she turned to face the messenger. The child was scrappy, but clearly not underfed. “Yes?” she asked.

The messenger bowed. “Lord Starscream would like you to join him in the main library with your healer’s bag. Two deserters from the Autobot army have arrived, and one of them needs medical help.”

“Is Master Hook not available?” she inquired as she rose and put on her over-robe. Her feet went from her comfy, padded clogs to her leather slippers, and then she picked up her kit.

“He’s in surgery all morning.”

She found a tip and pressed it into the child’s hand. “I will be there. Thank you.”

The messenger scampered out, and Windblade took a moment to catch her breath. She would finish her mother’s letter later. She had a patient to attend to.

—

_February 4, 1037_

_Somewhere in the Sigma Forest, Cybertron_

Prowl blinked as he picked his head up off his desk. He looked to meet the princess’ eyes in front of him, but a series of rapid blinking did not change that he was alone in the command tent. He was also very cold—somehow his brazier had gone out.

When he tried to stand, he fell. Abruptly grateful for his unexpected solitude, he pushed himself to his hands and knees, and nearly bit his lip clean through as he stretched out both legs. Pins and needles could not begin to describe the sensation, and finally he levered himself to sit down and knead his muscles.

He was also hungry. He hadn’t been hungry a moment ago, when he and the princess had been at loggerheads. What had happened? Had she placed him under some kind of spell? Why hadn’t someone come to check in on him or tell him that the cooks were ready to feed the officers?

When he exited the tent, he understood.

All around him, the camp was waking up. All 7,000 soldiers and support staff had fallen asleep where they had been, and Prowl’s hands shook before he shoved them into the pockets of his coat. How had she pulled it off? Magic of that kind was flashy and visible, but no one had seen anything that would imply that she had done it or even that she had the amount of power necessary to pull it off.

Moreover, how long had they been asleep? Sleep spells could vary in time, but the general rule of thumb was that the larger the group, the shorter the spell. Who could help them discover that?

“Prowl!”

Ah, yes. Prowl turned to face an irate Prime. “Yes, Prime?”

“You’re finally awake,” Prime grunted as he came to a stop from his running. “I’ve been trying to wake you and everyone else, but that witch put a spell over all of you.”

“How long?” _And why wasn’t the Prime affected?_

“6 days,” Prime said.

Prowl forgot himself and goggled. “Six _days_?”

Prime confirmed it with a nod. “And it was contagious. When Captain Springer came back with his team after doing reconnaissance, he and his team also fell asleep. They’re waking up now.”

Prowl ran his hand over the top of his head and was briefly consoled by the fact that his hair hadn’t fallen out from stress yet. His stomach spasmed from hunger, so sharply that he nearly bent over. That reminded him of what his immediate priorities were, instead of dwelling on what his retaliation should be. “Order the cooks to get the pots going. Everyone gets fed as soon as they have something worth eating. Once you’ve talked to the cooks, round up the officers. Have them check in with their divisions. I want to find out how many people are dead. Have them come to the command tent in an hour.”

Prime raised an eyebrow at him, but obeyed.

Prowl could have returned to his tent, but instead he chose to walk around the camp, to make himself more visible to his soldiers. Everyone was shaking off the effects of the sleep spell, and he kept wondering how the princess had managed it. Nothing in any reporting had claimed she had had even an inkling of the power necessary, and no one had seen her performing any magic. How did she do it? Was it bought magic that only needed an activation?

Springer spotted him and loped up to him as Prowl began the rotation that led back to his tent. “Still think this siege is a good idea, sir?”

Prowl glared at Springer. “Your remarks are not welcome.”

“They are when I know I’m walking into a death trap.”

“Explain.”

Springer shrugged. “We already know Starscream can kill—and creatively. Now, through your actions, you’ve created another enemy who is capable of creating a sleep spell that affects 7,000 people. For six days. Imagine what the two of them could do together. And now you’re sending us into a mess you created.” Springer’s voice grew rougher with anger. “Because you couldn’t let a damn thing go.”

“You hate Starscream as much as I do,” Prowl snapped, but quietly. There was no reason for the soldiers around them to understand the argument.

“Yeah, I do. But while my team is used to bad odds, the rest of them _aren’t_. And you like games where you’ve rigged it to win. The Prime’s not enough. What the hell is keeping you going on this fool’s errand?”

“ _Fool’s errand_ —,” Prowl started, but by then they were at the command tent with all the assembled officers. Prowl sat down and gestured for the officers to report.

Springer stood by with his arms crossed as the officers reported, almost to every single one—even the chief of themedical tents—no deaths, no loss of supplies, and no fires. Only one person reported a single death: the brig commander reported that Impactor, removed to the brig from the princess’ “allegations”, had died of exposure. Springer raised a brow at that.

There was one last piece of news, one that made all of them uncomfortable. “The magic from the stones that powered the shield is gone,” the lieutenant in charge informed them. “We are no longer shielded from the cold or any future storms. Additionally,” Prowl noted how the lieutenant’s throat bobbed in a swallow, “there is no way to turn them, er, back to account.”

“That was always going to be a risk,” Springer said, and Prowl turned on him. Springer’s green eyes were brightly defiant. “This was Wrecker magic, remember? Granite holds magic well, but only because it has a seed of it itself. Once even that seed is gone,” he shrugged, “it cannot be brought back.”

“Then what do you recommend?” Prowl snapped.

“Turn around,” Springer said.

The temperature in the tent dropped by ten degrees. “ _What?_ ” Prowl hissed.

Springer shifted his feet further apart. Everyone in the room knew he was bracing for a fight. “It’s early February, Commander.” Prowl didn’t think he was imagining the sarcastic lilt on _Commander_. “In the North, where winter usually persists into early May. We have no shields against it, and every soldier counts. Turn around.”

The attention of all the other officers swiveled to Prowl. It was time for him to reveal what he had been sitting on for so long. Prowl smoothed down his coat and straightened his shoulders. “In early August, after the princess had arrived in Iacon, there was a spear of light in the sky. After careful study, I concluded that it was from the city itself. Whatever magic the princess has—and it may not be known exactly what it is, but no one can deny she has tremendous power at her fingertips—she will bring life back to the city. Under Starscream.” Prowl looked at all of them one by one. “We all know Starscream. We know what he is. If this occurs under his rule, we will never again be able to wrest Iacon from him in this generation.”

Prowl started to pace, to better meet each officer’s eyes. “I recognize that this is not the best time, but it is clear to me that once spring comes, our cause will be lost forever. They will marry, have children, and our cause will dwindle into nothing. Is this what Optimus led us for, what he died for? Starscream had him killed to prevent this rising.” He struck his palm with a closed fist, like he had seen Optimus do so many times. “Remember what Optimus always said?” He looked around the tent. “Give us the grace to light our darkest hour. Fight with me. Let us remove the stain of Starscream from this earth.”

The rousing speech worked, to his surprise. He had never been the most inspirational figure. The officers cheered him—everyone except Springer, of course. Springer waited until everyone had filed out, and then he said, “Thank you for confirming it.”

Prowl looked up. “Confirmed what?”

Springer was smiling, but it was a thin, nasty smile. “That the Prime you’ve brought back is not Optimus. I do wonder who you chose.” Prowl grew lightheaded at the accidental disclosure. “I’ll figure it out. Good night, _Commander_.”

This time, there was definitely no mistaking the denigration as Springer vanished from the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what about THAT realization, huh? I mean, uh, which one, right?
> 
> Sound off below!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains a depressive episode and description of maliciously-caused injury. 
> 
> I've posted 2 new bits of commentary on my writing tumblr. The first is the commentary on the last two chapters and can be found [here.](https://inkfic.tumblr.com/post/173780595337/thematic-musings) The second bit of commentary is a reflection on the initial history that influenced this story, as well as a discussion of my personal politics and can be found [here.](https://inkfic.tumblr.com/post/173780263742/passing-remarks) I think my politics are fairly obvious if you've read my work for a while, but the latter link is more of a personal essay than anything else (albeit containing an irreverent description of The Anarchy).
> 
> I love all of your comments. Please keep them coming.

**CHAPTER TWENTY: THE SHADOW OF DEATH**

The room, when Windblade entered it, contained people Windblade had never seen before. Starscream was standing in front of the large fireplace with a cup in hand as he spoke quietly to someone with a glassy visor in a chair. Another person, well-wrapped, had their leg up on an stool, and from the angle of their head, was listening intently to Starscream and the visored person. 

When Windblade saw Ultra Magnus, she felt a certain flush of relief and she went over to him. She didn’t want to distract Starscream, not when he was so focused. Next to Ultra Magnus stood a tall (though not as tall as her) young person, with a thin scar bisecting his face. He glanced up at her and then away. “Princess Windblade,” Ultra Magnus said. “This is Barricade, he’s to be the new captain of the City Watch.”

“Captain,” Windblade said. She extended her hand, but instead of shaking it, Barricade took it and pressed a quick kiss to it. She looked at Ultra Magnus with her eyebrows raised, but Ultra Magnus shrugged. “The last I heard, Ultra Magnus, you were headed to see Lord Justice Tyrest. Have you returned so quickly?”

“Tyrest is dead,” Ultra Magnus told her. She gasped. “It was lung sickness. I was there in time to give him the last rites, but with Tyrest dead, my duty--such as it is--is here.”

She tilted her head. “You won’t be fighting with Prowl, then?”

Ultra Magnus’ jaw tightened. “Not after what Jazz told me.” He nodded toward the visored person. “He’s in a right state.”

Thundercracker came into the room with Marissa, and once he closed the door, Starscream cut off his conversation to look for Windblade. When he found her, he gestured for her to join him next to Jazz. She went, unhappily, to his side. It was the first time she had been close enough to touch in too many days, and her resentment at her isolation spiked. “My dear,” Starscream told her quietly, “Jazz has a wound. Could you tend it?”

Her frustration rose--was that the only reason why she was there?--but when she looked down at Jazz’s face, she put it aside. He had a nasty gash on his shoulder that began under the collarbone and went up and over his shoulder. “I’ll need to cut your shirt away,” she warned Jazz.

“Tha’s fine,” Jazz slurred. Even with his voice muddled from pain and exhaustion, it was still rich and lovely to listen to. “Is no good an’way.”

The lighting--framed from behind by the fireplace--was bad, so she whistled up a witchlight to get a better idea of what she was looking at. The edges of the wound were red and puffy, with yellow pus oozing from the cut. As she probed the wound carefully, the white of the collarbone was visible. It was not going to be easy to fix; the wound was too deep for sutures, but sutures might work until he was able to get to Hook.

The bigger concern was the infection. It had already begun to wrap tendrils around the artery on that side of the upper torso, and if it got into the artery there was a good chance Jazz would die. She looked up at Starscream, who broke off from his conversation with the other guest. “I’m going to need some kind of shallow bowl, strong alcohol, and your help. The bowl should probably be wood, something that burns.”

“Ehm?” Jazz asked, but Windblade ignored him. 

Starscream nodded and went to request what she needed, and she cut away the rest of Jazz’s shirt. Like Starscream, he had his fair share of scars, but unlike Starscream, his healer had clearly cared about tending them. “I know, I know,” Jazz mumbled to her as she felt his forehead and found fever, “I’m a treat to see.”

“I’ll appreciate you more when you’re all healed up,” she told him, smiling slightly.

“That a promise, princess?”

“Consider it such,” she said. She rarely promised anything, but between hers and Starscream’s magic, they should be able to manage.

As Starscream came back over--she noted that Thundercracker took over his previous conversation with their other guest--she urged Jazz to lay down on the chaise with his injured shoulder hanging over the edge. “I know it’s uncomfortable,” she admitted, “but it works easier this way.”

“An’thing for you, princess,” Jazz said.

She knelt down on the floor and placed the bowl under his shoulder and looked at Starscream. “Just like we’ve been doing. Is Hook really in surgery all morning?”

“A kid got their leg pinned under a cart wheel,” Starscream said with a grimace. “If he’s not careful, the kid’s gonna lose the leg. We’re on our own.”

She nodded, her mouth dry. “With me, then. Jazz,” she warned, “this is going to hurt.” She poured some of the alcohol--undrinkable brandy by its smell--over the cut before she gestured to Starscream. Their magic melded and dove into the cut, and she guided his magic to the artery first.

She wasn’t aware of how they were being stared at or at the smell emerging with the viscous pus dripping into the wooden bowl. Her focus had narrowed entirely to the complexity of veins, the artery, the muscles and the bone that made up the injury. As Starscream pressed harder into the wound to draw out the sickness, Windblade explored the wound’s margins and felt sick. It had been made with some kind of barbed or serrated blade. She suspected poison had been on the blade for the infection to have come so far in such a short time--the injury was only a few days old. 

The last of the pus plopped into the full bowl, and Starscream started to retreat, but Windblade realized it was the time to experiment with an ambition she had nurtured for quite some time. She touched his elbow, and though he was startled, he allowed her take control of their shared magic.

What had Sister Medica said again? _Start from the bottom_. She went all the way down to the tangle of muscles and bone and started to knit the muscles together, the work of weeks happening in front of her senses. Sweat rolled down her cheeks as she finished up the bottom part of the wound and moved to the bone--there was a chip in the collarbone, and she urged bone to grow and fill in the divet. She left it growing as she started to bring the top layer of muscle together, and while she was there, she pushed good health into the artery. Once Jazz was healed up, he would be in good shape as an extra safeguard from lingering infection.

It was knitting the skin together at the top that was the hardest part. It had not been a clean or straight wound, and it was going to leave a nastier scar than she intended, but she set her jaw and went to work to regrow skin. 

When the injury was finally closed, she tried to stand up and fell over. Her underdress was soaked in sweat and her hair was plastered to her head. She was dimly grateful for the lack of cosmetics. 

The light in the room had changed, from late morning to early afternoon. Starscream helped her get to a chair and someone--she thought it was Captain Barricade--got her a cup of cold water. She smiled her thanks and turned to Starscream, who looked cool and comfortable. “Why are you so pretty?” she demanded.

“Inheritance,” he replied. Then he added, “You did most of the hard work. I’ve ordered for that bowl to be carried away and burned.”

“Thanks,” she said feebly. She looked over at Jazz, whose visor made it difficult to make out his eyes but she guessed he was sleeping. “Can I eat something?”

“I’ve got it,” Captain Barricade said quickly. From a table, he brought her a bowl of soup, which she ate in quick, small bites as someone came forward to take Jazz and place him in a guest room on Starscream’s orders.

By the time her bowl was clean, the room’s occupants gathered into a tighter almost-circle, with Ultra Magnus and Starscream operating as the two poles. Windblade was next to the other guest, who was busily massaging a knee, and when she turned to look at them, they stuck out a hand and said, “Bumblebee.”

“Windblade, princess of Caminus,” she said as she took it. She glanced down at their knee. “What’s wrong?”

“Bumblebee got caught on the wrong end of a crossbow bolt once,” Starscream said. “It utterly ruined his knee.”

Windblade reached out a hand. “May I?” she asked Bumblebee.

His eyes widened. “You’re not tired?”

She smiled faintly. “Oh, I am, but I have enough.” She laid her hand on top of Bumblebee’s knee and pressed warmth through the clothing to the limb below. Bumblebee sighed with relief, and she sealed the heat before turning back to the circle. “What’s going on?”

“That is what we have been discussing,” Ultra Magnus said. “While you have been working, I mean. Jazz and Bumblebee have brought us disturbing news.”

“Is it about the revenant Prime?” she inquired as she leaned back in her chair. 

“Yes,” Ultra Magnus said. He had a way of freezing someone with a glance when he was angry, and he was angry now. “But it’s about how Prowl had the body in the first place.”

Windblade stilled, and Starscream sensed it. “Oh yes,” he said with bitter satisfaction. “Prowl did it.”

She looked around the circle of faces--Thundercracker, Marissa, Ultra Magnus, Captain Barricade, and Ravage. “How do we make this known?” she asked. “Surely if the troops knew--.”

“There’s just one problem with that,” Ravage said. “When Optimus died, Starscream never announced that he wasn’t guilty of it.”

“No one would have believed me,” Starscream pointed out.

Ravage inclined her head and continued, “But the fact that his denial is not public and on the record means that most of the troops will believe Starscream is lying and attempting to tar Prowl’s reputation.”

“What reputation he has left,” Bumblebee growled. “And I’m no help, either. It will be known, or at least soon, that I’ve defected here. Jazz is keeping it quiet that _he’s_ here, probably because he doesn’t intend to stay. But I do.”

Windblade blinked at the admission. “Ah,” she said. 

Captain Barricade cleared his throat. “All that being said, how does this impact the city’s preparations?”

Starscream frowned in thought. It was a welcome change from his usual condescending smirk. “I want to accuse him of it, publicly. He won’t expect me to know. Prowl can roll with the punches, but only when he anticipates them.”

“And just how will you do that?” Bumblebee demanded, stretching out his leg with a small sigh. “It still comes back to the same issue--you lack credibility.”

“But if Prowl--.”

“By this point, he knows that Jazz has defected. He has likely guessed why. No, you will need proof of his guilt, and that proof will not exist at this point.”

“Then what would you recommend?” Starscream snapped. 

Bumblebee tapped the base of his cane on the floor. “Let me think about it. We’ll come up with something, I’m sure.”

“That does lead us into the next quandary,” Captain Barricade said with a touch of nervousness. He looked at Ultra Magnus, who nodded. “We have been supporting the outer wall, but when it comes to an attack, we simply do not have the defensive magics to keep it up. No shields. That will make a siege...unwise.”

Windblade didn’t bother to add to the conversation as she recovered. Starscream reminded the captain _and_ Ultra Magnus _and_ Ravage that they might not possess the witches who could create defensive shields, but they could create another wall, further out to limit the abilities of siege machines. If it went down, it could be arranged to fall so that the siege engines had to be left behind.

“And just where,” Ultra Magnus sputtered, “will you get the stone on such short notice?”

Starscream arched a brow at the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord. “We already have it, or have you not noticed the stone lying about in piles?”

“It’s not in blocks, how can you--?”

“An attraction and cohesion spell,” Ravage broke in. Windblade had never heard her speak more than a few words before, and her voice reminded Windblade of a cat’s rasping voice and the high-low nature of meows. “That’s what he has in mind. It will pull all the broken stone from the city streets and form it into a wall, and then a cohesion spell with properly placed mortar will keep it together. With the right spells set into it, it may not be shielded but it could take a lot of damage.”

Starscream nodded at her. “Exactly. And then once the city streets are cleared, it will be easier to mobilize and to create supply trains. If the siege ends and the wall is still standing, the land between the two city walls can easily be used to create more living space, or industry, or even markets. It allows for a certain expansion.”

Ultra Magnus still looked unhappy, but unhappy in the sense that there was nothing in the sentence he could disagree with, even if he wanted to. “It’s a basic enough spell,” he said reluctantly. “Even those with only a smidge of magic could help.”

Starscream and Ravage nodded.

“Not a bad plan,” Bumblebee yawned. “And now, with all due respect, I need to find a bed.”

Thundercracker immediately bounded forward. “Let me help you with that. Have you met Marissa?”

As Thundercracker led Bumblebee from the room with Marissa by his side, Starscream dismissed Ultra Magnus and Captain Barricade. He threw himself into the chaise lounge left behind by Jazz. “So what did you think of our new captain?” Starscream asked her.

Ravage came closer, and the firelight made her face seem sharper. “He seems easy enough,” Windblade admitted. “Though a little mild for captain of the City Watch.”

“He’s not always so mild,” Ravage said with a snort. “He’s a deadly fighter and he has his own mind. That’s why Ultra Magnus chose him--he’ll fight for his own ground if he feels Starscream is overstepping boundaries.”

“It’s good to have people who disagree with you,” Starscream said breezily, “even if it’s annoying at the time. How are you feeling?”

Windblade’s resentment skyrocketed. “You mean emotionally or physically?” she asked, tart.

Starscream’s eyebrows went up. “That’s not called for,” he scolded. “I know you must be exhausted from working with Hook--.”

“He informed me that my skills are not needed,” Windblade said, clipped. 

“But--.”

Windblade pointed at him. “Don’t get involved,” she warned, “or I will find it difficult to be accepted on my own terms by your people. If he doesn’t want my help, I can’t force him to accept it.” 

Starscream’s jaw set. “So what _have_ you been doing?”

“Nothing,” she said, as bitter as she ever was. “I sit. I read. I hardly talk to anyone.” She gestured to the room. “This is the most people I’ve been around since we came back. Everyone else is _busy_.”

From the way Starscream sat up, he knew he was included in that ‘everyone.’ “Tomorrow,” he told her, “we’ll go on walkabout. I know you know how to run a city in a natural disaster, so I want you to look around and find problem spots. We’ll start there.” He looked up at Ravage. “Anything to add?”

“Not yet,” Ravage said, “but I’ll think about it.” She smiled down at Windblade. “Chin up, Princess. We’ll find a way to keep you busy.”

\--

_When I became pregnant with Hot Shot, I was forced to slow down. Unlike my pregnancy with you, his carrying was a misery and I couldn’t understand why. I was in good health, I ate good food with regularity (5 small meals instead of 3 large ones and a tea ceremony), and I walked and exercised. It was one of the most beautiful summers I could remember, but I was forced to spend most of it in bed for my confinement. You were my solace during that time. With your games and animal friends, I was entertained, and having me to yourself brought back some of the playfulness I feared you had lost forever. You were in the room when I began labor, and it went so badly that my midwives and nurses quite forgot you were there._

_When it seemed that Hot Shot would be stillborn, you pushed your way between the anxious, panicking attendants and laid your hands on my belly. ‘Don’t be scared, Mama,’ you told me, and then there was a jolt. Hot Shot exited easily and though he was sickly, he was alive enough to wail his anger at the injustice of a cold world._

_But what I later discovered when I had ordered his star-charts was that he had indeed been fated to die, and that death would stalk him his entire life. He is to die before his twenty-sixth birthday. He has been so much sicker than you and Lightbright--I know Lightbright got the red pox when she was only a babe, but her fire magic ensured both her survival and the fact that she did not become pockmarked and scarred. Hot Shot frequently suffered the shits, he barely managed to survive nervous fever, and if he became sick with grippe or ague, it would almost certainly turn into lung sickness. While he was younger, I did my best to keep him separated from anything that might turn into an illness, and this meant I often had to keep him from you, since even by then you had a tendency to haunt healing halls in an effort to be useful._

_I do not know where his resentment sprang from…_

\--

_February 7, 1037  
Iacon_

For the second time, Windblade was torn from her mother’s letter by the arrival of an unexpected guest. In this case, he was not truly _that_ unexpected, but she had expected him later. “Starscream,” she greeted from her position on the bed, where she was laying on her stomach and going through her mother’s letter. “Is there something I can do for you?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. Even with her skirts spread over the bed, she was still dwarfed by the frame. “You are angry with me.”

She rolled over to sit up. She had taken her hair down into a single braid, and it flopped over her shoulder as she turned to look at him. “Why would you think that?”

He disarmed her by perching on the edge of the bed, within arm’s reach. “I know you,” he said. “You could barely stand to look at me, and though normally you would be all over the conversation we had, you said nothing. I mistrust your silence.”

She looked at him. “I have never lived through war as you know it. I had nothing useful to add, so I held my tongue. That might be a skill you should master.”

“Windblade,” he reached for her. She let him, but she remained still and did not lean into his touch on her arm. “Are you really so angry about our marriage?”

Her resentment overflowed. “Am I supposed to be happy about it?”

“It got you away from Hot Shot.”

“Diplomatic missions take me away from Hot Shot. You aren’t particularly special in that regard.”

His jaw tightened, and she tensed. When Starscream got angry, he was violent, but she refused to make her life smaller to create more space for _his_ emotional responses. She had learned that with Hot Shot. “What is the problem?” he asked, his own resentment underlining every word. “We work well together--when you don’t indulge your superiority complex.”

“ _My_ superiority complex?” she gasped. 

Starscream dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “What is the _problem_?”

“Marriage is a cage,” she said flatly. “I lose all my rights when I marry, except for what my partner chooses to allow me. I will no longer have the independence to go where I will or to do what I want. Any land or valuables that belong to me will not stay in my name. And if the marriage should go poorly,” she allowed her voice to trail off before she said, “It’s legal and even recommended for the wife to be put under lock and key, deemed crazy and kept in isolation. Why would you _ever_ think this was an institution I had any desire to be a part of?”

“You did, once,” he replied.

Anger hummed along her skin. “I was younger and more stupid than I am now,” she snapped. “Stupid enough to believe that ‘love’ would sustain a relationship. I know better now.”

“ _My_ parents were happy.”

“They also died when you were a child,” she pointed out ruthlessly. It was a low blow, but so was the reference to Elita. “How much of the workings of their relationship could you possibly remember?”

He stood up, his hands clenching and relaxing in his anger. “I see you are still too angry to discuss this reasonably.”

She stood up also, and though she would never match his height, she drew her whole body upright. “I have laid down the legal reasonings for why marriage is a prison. You responded with an anecdote. _You_ are being unreasonable.”

“That is the response of a child,” he dismissed.

She glared at him. “Is there anything else, my lord?”

“I suppose not,” he sighed. “I’ll leave you to your unhappiness.”

And when he did, she found that she missed him.

\--

Ravage tapped on the open door before going inside. She made sure to leave it open a crack--she had never liked a closed door. “You could’ve waited for my invitation,” Hook grumbled as he looked over his paperwork. “Wouldn’t have hurt you.”

“It would’ve hurt _you_ ,” she said sweetly. “Have you looked our two guests over yet?”

“There’s nothing I could’ve done for Bumblebee’s leg,” Hook said immediately. “Not without major surgery that could result in even less use than what he has now. As for Jazz...it was an interesting healing job. That’s not how we usually work. Instead of being sealed, the veins were ligated with magic and then...woven, somehow. He’ll have a scar, but no healer can prevent a scar on a wound of that magnitude.” He peered at her. “Why?”

“The princess performed the healing.”

Hook paused. “That’s impossible. She’s only a nurse, she told me.”

“Don’t tell your nurses you think of them as ‘only’,” Ravage suggested. She leaned forward. “I watched it. She can combine her magic with Starscream’s, and she healed it. Their combined magic is a very pretty orange, nothing like the orange preferred by that _gardener_.” Ravage loathed Scoop.

“But Starscream’s magic--.”

“Can’t be seen, I know. Neither can hers. But together…” Ravage left it dangling in an effort to get Hook to follow the trail.

Hook refused. 

He cleared his throat and went back to his papers. “Why are you here?”

“To test how intelligent you are.”

Hook looked up with a scowl. “I have every right to turn people away.”

“Do you?” Ravage asked.

Hook made a face at her. “Are you, of all people, asking me why I don’t want someone underfoot in my own domain? Do you know how hard I’ve worked to finally have my own hospital, where I am master of the space? A noble--no matter how well-trained or well-intentioned--would take over the space I’ve worked so hard to achieve. I will not have it taken away.”

“When it could hurt your patients?” 

Hook set his jaw. “You are not a healer,” he pointed out, not unreasonably, “you don’t understand the mechanics of hospital leadership.”

Ravage shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“Why are you so invested?” Hook inquired.

“She has an international reputation for hating to be bored. If there’s no work for her, she’ll make some. Better to keep her occupied and out of the way, wouldn’t you agree?” Ravage stood up. “I’ll find something.”

Hook watched her go. There was no need to change his mind if Ravage was going to work on it.

\--

_I do not know where his resentment sprang from. I wish I did. I wish I could have spotted it from the very beginning so I could have crushed it. It has caused the both of you--_ yes _, the_ ** _both_** _of you--so much pain over the years. At some point, he got it into his head that you and I both thought you far better than him, and he resented us for it. Maybe because he was so much more ‘troublesome’ as a child, or perhaps because his medical needs delayed his magical development to such an extent that he never developed the power that the rest of us had. Perhaps he even thought you had more independence than he did. That would be true, but not for reasons you or he could control._

_I allowed his marriage to Thunderblast to stand because I knew he would never have the opportunities you and Lightbright did, and because I felt he deserved happiness before his inevitable death. I wish he had chosen a more brilliant, more compassionate partner, but certain events have caused me to reconsider Thunderblast’s character. She is braver than I thought she was._

_He has done too much ill to you for me to ask you to forgive him, but I hope--in light of these revelations--that you can consider it._

_There are several reasons why I chose not to agree to the betrothal with Elita, and I hope you will understand after I tell you what they were._

\--

_February 23, 1037  
Iacon_

Night had fallen in the palace at last. Being the highest point of the city on the hill, it did not succumb to the encroaching darkness until the rest of the city had. Ravage was grateful for the shadows in the family wing of the palace as she carried a leather satchel with a sleeping occupant.

She had been gone for a few days, but in those days of her absence, nothing had changed much. The wall was reaching completion, with traps tucked into the gaps and then painted over. The wall’s location itself had been determined by a generous estimate of where catapults would need to be in order to bring down the original city walls and then the wall had been placed a few feet further than the estimated distance. 

Upon her return, Ravage had been disturbed to hear no news of the princess. She had hoped her conversation with Hook might bear fruit, but from the lack of the princess’ presence in the hospital had dashed those particular hopes. Jazz was still convalescing--apparently the healing the princess and Starscream had worked on him had eaten into Jazz’s energy, not a usual problem with usual healers--so he remained out of sight, and Bumblebee had joined Starscream’s twice-daily councils of war, but the princes was nowhere to be seen.

She hadn’t left the palace, that much Ravage knew. But it still allowed for a lot that Ravage hoped the princess would not be foolish enough to engage in.

So here she was, with a satchel and hope. Normally, she did not traffic in hope. It was a useless exercise. Better still to _act_. But the princess was hard to predict, largely because Ravage did not know her well. If this gambit worked, Ravage’s access to the princess would increase, and then she would be easier to anticipate.

She knocked on the door and waited for a footman or chambermaid to answer, but she was startled when the princess herself opened the door. Princess Windblade looked as though she was halfway to haunting the family wing, in a white wool dress and matching robe. Her skin lacked its usual healthy tinge of gold, reduced to a sallow yellow that made her look ill. Her white tattoos were livid. “...my lady?” Ravage asked cautiously. “Should I come back?”

“No, no, please come in,” the princess croaked. Ravage stepped into the princess’ suite, alarmed at how her voice cracked. The rooms themselves were on the uncomfortable side of cool, but as Ravage stepped in, the princess stepped past her to throw some wood onto the fire. “I’m sorry, I forget sometimes that I don’t feel cold like others do.”

“No problem,” Ravage said. “Er--have you eaten, my lady?”

Princess Windblade tilted her head and considered the question. “I think I had breakfast,” she mused. “But I’m not that hungry so I didn’t eat that much today.”

Ravage was entirely at a loss. Nothing in her investigation of the princess had even hinted that the princess had a complicated relationship with food. Well, maybe it wasn’t food. Maybe it was something else. “Er--.”

“Have _you_ eaten?” Princess Windblade inquired. She stepped across the room to a chain pull. “I understand that you’ve been gone from court for a few days?”

Ravage relaxed a little at that. The princess had talked to _someone_. “Indeed, my lady. I would welcome a hot meal.”

“Marvelous,” the princess replied. At the growing light from the fireplace, her eyes narrowed in on the satchel in Ravage’s hands. “Can I offer some assistance?”

“Actually, I was hoping you would.” Ravage looked around and settled on the tufted footstool. She placed the satchel down and started to unlace it. The princess’ own curiosity, something Ravage had noted, spurred her to come to Ravage’s side and stare down at the satchel. “On my way back, I heard crying,” Ravage explained as she opened up the top of the leather bag. “When I investigated, I found this poor creature.” She hoisted up a sleeping kitten. It was large enough to require two hands, with a spotted grey-brown coat. 

The princess pressed even closer. “What is it?” she asked quietly as she offered to take the kitten. 

Ravage let her. “It--she--is a plains cat. They don’t get very big, but they’re one of the natural predators of the Iacon plains. They start out spotted like this and then turn solid-colored as they grow up. She was rejected by her mother, which was why she was crying. I would take care of her myself, but kits require more attention than I can offer right now, and I know that you’ve taken care of animals before.”

“Yes,” Princess Windblade said absently as she cuddled the kitten to her chest. The kitten blinked awake and looked up at the princess with startling gold eyes. Then the kitten yawned, showing the beginnings of fangs and a very pink tongue before tucking her head against the princess’ chest and promptly falling back asleep. “I did it frequently. Is she safe to keep in the palace, or will I need to re-introduce her to the wild once she’s able to hunt for herself?”

Ravage approved of her practicality, which also showed that the princess _had_ tended to wild animals before, not just domesticated. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I can’t communicate with her just yet, only concepts like ‘food’ and ‘safety.’ Once she’s a little older, I can try to figure out why her mother rejected her. Sometimes it’s for completely arbitrary reasons, and sometimes it’s not. For now, I would just treat her like a wild animal that will need rehabilitation until I can get some answers.”

“You can communicate with her?” Princess Windblade looked from the kitten to Ravage. “You have animal magic?”

“Of a kind.” It was something Ravage did _not_ want to discuss. At least, not yet. “But I understand that you have both the experience and the time.”

The princess’ face creased with something--pity or resentment. “Yes, I can do that.” She stroked one hand down the kitten’s back. “Will you keep me updated?”

“Of course.”

At that moment, a footman popped into the room. “You rang, my lady princess?”

“Yes,” Princess Windblade said. “A full dinner spread for the two of us, and I will need large quantities of goat’s milk, butter, a pitcher of cream, and some chicken demiglace.”

The footman repeated all of that and disappeared again. “I like to include a little extra protein and salt,” the princess admitted with a shy smile. “Just because there really is no _good_ substitute for mother’s milk, but my concoction is the best I can come up with.”

“You don’t need to explain it,” Ravage assured her. “I’m just grateful that you’re taking this on.”

The princess placed the kit on one of the large, expensive couches and wrapped a blanket around it. When she saw Ravage goggling, she giggled once. “Couches aren’t worth much in comparison to a life,” she said, “and also, I hate orange, so if she ruins it, I can get it reupholstered in a color of _my_ choosing.”

Ravage laughed too. She was startled to note that she _liked_ the princess. Normally, anyone who liked Starscream was either as self-serving as he was or deluded, but the princess’ practicality and generosity put the lie to both notions. “I’ll order her a bed tomorrow,” the princess added. “Something that’s hers. Oh, and a few scratching posts, and a catbox. It has been too long since I’ve had a kitten to mind.”

“You found Starscream’s cat, didn’t you?”

Princess Windblade rolled her eyes. “He named him _Mau_ , can you believe it?” She trilled laughter that was so infection Ravage had to join her. 

“Why animals, if you don’t mind my asking?” Ravage asked as the princess sat at her small dining table in front of the fire and gestured for Ravage to join her. 

“Starscream didn’t tell you?”

“He chose not to disclose,” Ravage said. 

Princess Windblade shrugged. Maybe it was the company or the increased lighting, but her skin looked healthier than it had. “I’ve always liked animals,” she said, “and they liked me, because they could sense my magic, I think. I could train hawks and dogs without as many problems and certainly less injuries than your average trainer. When we--my mother and me--finally figured out just what my magic _was_ , my official duties in my education either had me in the healing halls, the greenhouses, or the kennels.” Her face turned wistful. “I haven’t been anywhere quite long enough to have the animal companions that I took for granted as a child.”

“Well, now you can,” Ravage suggested.

Princess Windblade’s face lit up. “That’s true. I could request a breeding pair of Temple cats on my next letter home. They,” she added to clear away Ravage’s incomprehension, “are very curious, smart, and talkative, with absolutely beautiful coats. I suspect that if cats have magic, Temple cats possess it in spades.”

“What colors?” Ravage inquired.

“Typically blue, with touches of white and black,” the princess said. “Although I had one as my sleeping companion for years who was a mix of brown, black, and white. They’re generally medium or longhaired cats, and grooming them became my way of unwinding after a difficult day.”

“Are you as interested in dogs?”

“I like dogs,” Princess Windblade conceded, “but dogs don’t purr.”

Ravage had to laugh again. “Don’t tell Thundercracker that,” she advised after she had regained control of herself. “He thinks that dogs are the pinnacle of perfection.”

“He’s perfectly entitled to that opinion,” Princess Windblade dismissed as she rested her chin in her hand. “We just won’t let him know that he’s wrong.”

It was definitely not a trick of the light--the princess was almost glowing, now. “How many creatures did you have growing up?” Ravage asked. 

“Oh, too many to count, and most of them weren’t exactly _mine_. I tended to accrue a crowd of anything that had the ability to recognize individuals, so at one time, I had several cats, dogs, mice and _weasels_ , of all things, fighting for the honor of sharing my cot. Sometimes they shoved me out of it. My companions, though, included a retired bitch--retired from breeding and hunting, I mean--2 Temple cats, and my hunting eagle.” 

There was a knock at the door and when the princess called, “Enter!”, two footmen came in with a rolling cart. The food was still hot, thank Primus, with a tureen filled with steaming onion soup, some cured meat sandwiches, and hard cookies for dessert. Accompanying the meal was a full teapot and two cups. One the second tier of the cart were the ingredients for the princess’ ‘milk concoction.’ The footmen wasted no time in setting their table, and Ravage was interested to see the porcelain was not the familiar palace china, but rather had a very dramatic cobalt, black, and gold pattern on white. 

Princess Windblade saw her look. “I’m not much of a nationalist,” she admitted, “but I like to have a little bit of home around me.”

Ravage murmured that it was nothing--indeed, after she adjusted to the dramatics of the pattern, it was gorgeous--but she waited for the princess to complain about the fare. Onion soup, cured meat, and hard cookies were the result of winter stores, not freshly-harvested food, and every noble Ravage had known, even Starscream, had complained about that kind of food from time to time.

“I love onion soup,” the princess said happily as the footmen rolled out of the room, “and it’s been delightful to compare Camien recipes to Cybertronian. Onion soup is typically lighter in Caminus, but here it can be a whole meal. Once the cooks knew I struggled with milk, they stopped making it creamy and started adding potatoes and demiglace, to thicken it.” 

Ravage hid her surprise. “You’re more familiar with cooking than I expected.”

“Well, Chromia and me traveled a lot,” the princess explained, “and we spent a lot of nights out in the open, not always with the ability to hunt game, so we had to find ways to eat that satisfied. I have a wide palate, or so it’s called, and apart from what I can’t eat, I like to try all sorts of things and I do my best not to complain. There are so many things that go into making a dinner that unless something is truly egregious, like raw chicken, that if I can eat it, I do.”

“Huh,” Ravage said.

The more the princess spoke, the more Ravage understood her, but the full picture hadn’t come together just yet. The princess was someone who was accustomed to work--Princess Windblade’s words hadn’t needed to tell Ravage _that_ \--but despite her ability to ‘rough it’ and her minimal nationalism, she was still someone who appeared to love beautiful things and to have companions. The rooms had been decorated largely by Captain Chromia and the princess’ lady’s maid, and so the princess’ personal touch wasn’t there quite yet, but in the snoozing kit on the couch, Ravage saw a portent of the princess surrounded by fluffy creatures. 

Yet the princess’ listlessness was a concern. She was happy enough in this moment, but what would happen once Ravage left the room? Her isolation appeared to be, at least in part, self-imposed. Was she trying to punish Starscream? If so, he would never realize it. 

“So what were you off doing for the past few days?” the princess asked as she started to tuck into the sandwiches. Ravage hurried to catch up.

“I was checking on the status of the border, largely,” Ravage told her. “There are some villages that marked the forest boundary--I believe you visited one--and some are for us and some aren’t. The army hasn’t arrived yet, but their scouts have. Isolated villages don’t have much a choice when it comes to feeding and housing armies, so I wanted to make sure I had a full report with context before presenting it to Starscream.” She nodded toward the kit. “And then I found that one so that became a priority.”

“Why do _you_ care?” the princess inquired. 

Ravage shrugged. “No creature should be denied their dam or sire if they can help it. I lost my sire at a young age so I hate to see it happen to someone else.”

The princess nodded. The answer was a little more complex than that, but like hell Ravage would explain it fully. She broke off a piece of cookie and dunked it into her tea. “You said you’ve rehabilitated other wild creatures?”

The princess let rest her sandwich. “A few times. There was a ghost cat who haunted the Temple during my education there. I finally figured out that it was asking for help and once the animal healer saw to it, it disappeared. I’ve taken in birds to repair broken wings, I raised an orphaned weasel, and I helped take care of twin rabbits. There’s something there that resists contact with me, well, maybe not contact but, um, connection? They need me, for a brief time, and once they don’t need me anymore, they leave. The animals I’ve helped that I had a connection with, once they were healed, they hung around.”

Compassion, Ravage realized slowly. Everyone had their guiding light, and if the princess had one, it was compassion. Starscream would probably have said it was duty, but Ravage didn’t believe that. Everyone had a reason behind their sense of duty. Ultra Magnus firmly believed in equality and fairness under the law; that was what spurred him, what got him up in the morning. The princess may have attended her duty, but she did so because her duty was rooted in her compassion. 

Compassion, Ravage could use.

She got up after she finished her cookie. “Thank you for dinner.” The princess had cleared her plate, Ravage noted. So much for not being hungry.

The princess briefly looked disappointed. “You’re not staying?”

“I have to give a report to Starscream. He gets crabby when it’s given too late.” Ravage glanced one last time at the kit. “I’ll be by--if only to check on her.”

The princess smiled. “You are more than welcome.”

\--

_There are several reasons why I chose not to agree to the betrothal with Elita, and I hope you will understand after I tell you what they were. You see, my negotiations with Elita for the signing of the treaty took place at a very particular time--you had completed your training in the Temple three years prior but you were still working with it and visiting all corners of Caminus as part of the immediate disaster relief group, and Elita had just taken power after an incredibly bloody coup. Carcer does not have a line of inheritance established the way we do; instead, in the very heart of Vigilem, a poll is taken of one of their most sacred artifacts. Then, the result is contested. Violently. Elita was the survivor of that contestation, and she was determined--_ is _determined--to make Carcer far more stable, politically._

_To showcase that, she made the overtures for a treaty. The Northern Reach was to deemed ours without any question, an advancement against years worth of incursion, and that any Carcerians attacking Caminus through the Northern Reach would be deemed traitors. It was not a popular declaration on her side, but it opened the opportunity for peace talks._

_That whole spring and summer, you were away, dealing with wildfires and disease outbreaks in the West, and I made all of the negotiations. Around the end of July and early August of that year, we had created a treaty that was fairly benign to Caminus and strides ahead to Carcer. I was confident it could be upheld, unlike previous treaties, because it asked for so little. I was preparing to send Lord Afterburner to act as my representative, but Elita demanded a royal person to be there and sign the treaty in Carcer. It was not an unusual request, but you hadn’t returned yet and I didn’t want to remove you from such a vital mission. I explained my request for a delay, and in the meantime, her representative--Lord Obsidian--began to go over the treaty with a fine-toothed comb, and he started finding little discrepancies and other issues of semantics. Those issues persisted even after you returned, until Lord Obsidian finally declared that the treaty was fine in late September._

_I had suspected they were stalling, but I was unsure why. I had intended to send Lord Afterburner with you--he was the only diplomat with both military experience and Carcer experience--but his wife was having trouble with their third child and ultimately miscarried. In good conscience, I could not separate him from her at that time. In hindsight, I wish I had. It might have saved you from heartbreak._

_We heard about the assassination attempt two weeks after it happened. That whole time, I was informed, you had been in Elita’s custody and she was keeping you safe, personally. I went about sending a contingent of our guards to keep you safe on your return, but the messenger hastened to tell me that Elita had requested that you stay until the group that had attempted the assassination was brought to justice, or what counted as justice to Carcer. You would be more vulnerable on the road because of the geography of the mountains, not just to potential attackers but to winter storms, and so, despite my unease, I allowed it._

_I regret that now._

_I believe Elita either arranged for that attempt or took advantage of it to delay your stay until the mountain passes closed. That whole winter, I heard nothing from you, and my worry grew by the day. I attempted to call you with magic, through mirrors and flame, but my attempts never got through. Still, I reasoned, the distance and Elita’s protection spells could prevent that. Her caution was legendary by that point._

_When the mountain passes cleared, Elita’s first request to me was not about your departure, but rather if she could keep you--as the consort to the Liege General. I know that consorts in Caminus have very little status, but her missive (written in her own hand), promised that you would have a certain amount of power and security. If your betrothal could be included in the treaty, she said, she might be able to talk her nobles into giving us better treatment. There was just a catch--as a dowry, she wanted the Northern Reach. It had long been contested ground, and the people there were a mix of Carcerian and Camien anyway. It would be easier for Carcer to hold, and any Camiens who lived there or wanted to would be granted Carcerian citizenship._

_I was appalled. The protection of the Northern Reach had been the entire point of the treaty, and now she was asking me to essentially give it away. Marriage arrangements can take years, for good reason. For her to spirit you off and then demand your hand in marriage without letting you come home was troubling and it made me angry. Still, I was cautious. By that point I had been on the throne long enough to not react on my first impulse. Then I received your letter._

_You told me how much you loved her and that she had promised you two could be married and how much you were looking forward to it. Elita had allowed you to work on the filtration system for the city of Vigilem, and since you had fixed it, like you had here so long ago, deaths from rice water fever and nervous fever had gone down to nearly nothing. Elita had promised that Carcer was an entire country of projects like that, and how desperately you wanted to marry her._

_Your love for her would have touched my heart, except now I saw Elita’s gambit for what it was. She had manipulated circumstances to keep you nearby, and then she had worked to make you fall in love with her. I do not know if she felt the same. Maybe she did. It did not remove the manipulation._

_So I refused. Somehow that refusal took two months to get to her, and then it took another month for it to take effect. In the denial of her offer, she took the treaty off the table entirely and sent you home. You were heartbroken and despondent, like when your father had died, and for a while I grieved with you and wondered if I had made the right decision. Somehow you, more than your siblings, always bore the cost of my decisions._

_Then you finally told me about it, on the eve of your departure to Eukaris, and one tiny detail confirmed that I had done the right thing. You told me that Elita loved raspberry leaf tea and served it whenever the two of you were together, to the point that you were drinking it constantly. I knew you two had been lovers, and this reveal chilled me._

_I’m not certain if you ever realized it, but Elita had been trying to get you pregnant. If she had, the marriage would have been forced to go through. Somehow you didn’t get pregnant, and I think that the Mother Superior had given you a discreet contraception charm before you left. If she had not, then your life may have been very different._

_I’m sorry for your heartbreak, truly. But I do not think a marriage with her would have been happy. You have been through a great deal, and so the one thing I feel you deserve is a happy marriage._

_\--_

_February 27, 1037  
Iacon_

Ravage’s arrival and the gift of the kit--Windblade had decided to christen her ‘Victorion’ for so long as she lived with Windblade--had perked Windblade up a little but not by much. She still spent the majority of her time in her rooms, but instead of being _entirely_ stricken with despair, she was playing with the kit and trying to build up her prey instinct or grooming her in between bouts of paralyzing helplessness.

Victorion loved to be groomed, and it was a more popular reward than anything else Windblade might have come up with. She would lay on the obscenely large bed (slightly smaller with the arrival of a plains kitten) and purr mightily as Windblade brushed her over and over again.

The rooms weren’t big enough for all the games, however. Though Victorion was struggling to find her legs still, Windblade would wrap up her paws carefully and then take her outside to whatever available courtyard to run around. That Victorion tripped a great deal did not worry Windblade; all new kittens, regardless of species or size, were clumsy.

It was one of these days, while Victorion did her best to chase after a ball despite her back legs giving up halfway through her run, that Windblade overheard a child crying. It was clearly a child from the inconsistent crying pattern, with pauses for gasps and burbled words. As she chirped to Victorion to get the kitten to follow her, she listened to the child and attempted to find out where it was coming from. 

Victorion was a fairly happy-go-lucky cat, even if Windblade suspected she would be a rather hapless predator. Her feet kept falling all over the place, until finally she picked up the kitten and draped her over her shoulder. Victorion purred in her ear, acting as though that was what she had wanted all along.

After two turns, Windblade found herself in the courtyard that bordered one of the hospital wings. The hospital had previously been an outbuilding for the palace, and one of Starscream’s first acts as ruler had been to officially designate it a hospital, since it already had the plumbing--or so Starscream had said. Like the palace, it was a building with many wings, and this wing had windows but no glass, merely shutters made of wood. It allowed the child’s cries to carry, and now that Windblade was close enough, she could hear the voice of the healer attempting to cajole it to quiet.

The door to the wing was open, likely for the fresh air the courtyard would bring, even if it was cold. She put Victorion down on an empty bed as she saw a team of healers clustered around a bed contained a toddler, whose face had turned red with the effort of crying. The toddler’s parent had been pushed back, and was nervously shifting from foot to foot. 

First things first. 

Windblade approached the parent. “Excuse me, I’m sorry, but what has happened to your child?”

The parent looked at her, but didn’t appear to recognize her. “He burned himself on my iron. I thought he was playing in the main room, not the kitchen, but I left it alone for a moment to fetch my washing and then I heard him screaming.”

Windblade nodded. Burns she could handle. “Don’t worry.”

“They don’t know how to get him to calm down. I told them, he likes to be played with, but they won’t listen.” The parent was on the verge of hysteria, and Windblade’s temper pricked slightly before she calmed.

She understood how wards worked. For so many years, she had worked in one, and then on a few occasions had commanded them. The one who remained calm and was the loudest with the best ideas worked. These healers, judging from how they all clustered around the child (likely frightening him further), were probably practicing. Burns were an unfortunate side-effect of violent conflict, she had found, and childrens’ bodies were forgiving.

Still, this behavior was unacceptable. 

She took a breath and pushed out her voice like she had been taught. “Back away from the child. _Now._ ”

The students backed away as one, clearly fearing she was one of their teachers. Before they had time to recognize she wasn’t, she had swooped in and put herself in front of the child. “Hello,” she told him. “I’m Windy. What’s your name?”

The child hiccuped. “‘Rider.”

“Hi Rider,” she said. “I heard you burned yourself. Can you show me?”

Rider held up a pudgy hand, and the burn was deep and bad--on _top_ of the hand. Windblade frowned internally as she asked, “Is it okay for me to hold your arm to get a better look? I promise I won’t touch it.”

He allowed her to hold up his arm and she gently measured the wound with her magic. It was deep and still too hot, as though the burning was still going. It was not a surface burn, not what Rider’s parent had said. It had been deliberate. 

She turned to the students. “I need burn salve, cool water, bandages, and a healer who specializes in burns. Go.”

The students scattered, and Victorion tired of the bed she was lying on. She hopped off it and came over to Windblade, and she jumped onto Rider’s bed. Rider flinched. “Big kitty!”

“Actually, she’s just a baby,” Windblade said as Victorion rolled onto her back and showed her light belly. Her purring made the bed frame vibrate. “She came to me a few days ago. Would you like to pet her?”

“Really?” Rider asked. “She’ll let me?”

Windblade had to smile. “I don’t see why not.” She reached out to touch Victorion’s splayed paw, and Victorion rolled back onto her stomach. She rammed her head into Windblade’s hand. “Have you ever petted a cat before?”

“No,” Rider said, fascinated as Windblade stroked the top of Victorion’s head. “Mama wants one, but Lils won’t let her.”

“Is that your mama?” Windblade asked.

Rider nodded.

It probably was not ‘Mama’ who burned him, then. “The nice thing about cats,” she told Rider, “is that they tell you where they want to be petted. See? She wants to be petted around her ears.” Victorion was tilting her head so that Windblade’s fingers rubbed the space around the base of her ears. “Do you want to try?”

Rider’s uninjured hand landed on top of Victorion’s head. At first he was hesitant, only scraping his hand back and forth, but when Victorion leaned into his hand and purred harder, he grew bolder. Windblade blessed Ravage for Victorion; the kit was distracting Rider from the agony of the burn and that could only be useful.

The students returned with a healer Windblade didn’t know. “Princess!”

Rider’s Mama looked shocked. “Princess?!”

Windblade ignored the shock. “This is Rider,” she told the healer. “He has a nasty burn on his hand, but we’re going to fix it. Aren’t we?” she eyeballed the healer, who nodded.

The healer moved to Rider’s side, next to Windblade. “Hi Rider. I’m Ameliorate. Can I see your burn too?”

Rider stuck his arm up, by now too invested in getting Victorion to lay across his legs than he was in the pain. The healer--Ameliorate--scanned it and then looked at Windblade. “This is not a natural burn,” they spoke quietly.

“I know, but that’s not important right now.”

Ameliorate inclined their head and got to work. In Windblade’s experience, since burns affected so much of the tissue that healing was not as simple as it was for a cut or a graze. Ameliorate proved that by pouring healing magic into the burn and healing it up to the top layers of skin, where pink discoloration marred the light brown skin of Rider’s arm. Ameliorate took the burn salve and applied it before wrapping it in a bandage. “It will heal in two days completely,” Ameliorate told Rider. “Be careful with it until then, okay?”

“Okay,” Rider said, happy now that Victorion had placed her head in his lap. 

Ameliorate went to talk with Mama, so Windblade stayed behind. She looked up at the students and realized it was a teachable moment. She would have to tread with it carefully--she didn’t want to overstep their current teachers, but she _did_ need to correct them. She left Rider with Victorion--no one was in any danger there--and gestured for the students to follow her.

When they did, she turned to them. “Have any of you ever treated a child before?”

They all looked at each other and then shook their heads. “With all due respect, Your Highness, we were brought on to be nurses for the upcoming siege,” one of them said.

Windblade brought her irritation to heel. “Yet you were assigned to this child’s care,” she said, as mildly as she could manage.

“Well, we needed to practice on burns,” a different one said. At this point, her irritation provided the impetus for her to be rude. None of the students had _deserved_ for her to know their names yet. 

“I see. And the fact that the victim was a child…?”

“Irrelevant,” a third one answered. “A patient is a patient.”

Windblade put her hands in her robe pockets. “Normally, that would be true,” she said. “But children are a special case.” She looked at each of them, so that they would fully understand her point. “Children get scared. The younger they are, the bigger the chance that this is the most pain that they’ve ever felt at one time. Adults, now, adults can compartmentalize and be stoic. Children haven’t learned how to do that yet. They feel _everything_. And the more that strangers crowd around them, poking at what hurts and not saying anything, the more scared and upset they are going to be. When someone is upset, their body is not going to be healed properly.”

“But how do you calm a child down?” the first one asked. “They don’t exactly think at our level.”

“They don’t,” she agreed, “so you have to think at theirs. Explain what you’re going to do. ‘ _I’m going to look it over now. It might hurt, so it’s okay if you yell or cry.’_ Or, _‘When we start to heal this, it’s going to feel cold. That’s normal.’_ The more they know, the more they won’t fight you.” She set her shoulders. “You have to be gentle and patient. You can’t show them that you’re irritated or angry. They’ll think it’s their fault.”

“What if it is their fault?” the second one asked. The other students tittered.

“Sometimes it is,” Windblade allowed, “but you are not there as a behavioral control. You are there as their healer, their nurse. You wouldn’t show your irritation with an older patient, so you shouldn’t show it with a younger one. Children are just like adults--they deserve to be treated with respect. If you ignore that to indulge your own feelings, you are a danger to your patients, and _I. Will. Not. Have. That._ Do you understand?”

Taken aback at her sudden growl, the students bobbed their heads. “Now get out,” she snapped at them. “You’ve done enough damage for the day.”

The students scampered, and once they were gone, Windblade’s shoulders slumped. “Too much stupid,” she said to herself.

There was slow clapping from behind her, the doorway that led to the other wards. She turned around, not entirely sure what to expect, and her eyebrows shot up when she saw Master Hook. “That was well done,” Hook drawled at her. “I’ve been trying to knock that message into their heads for two weeks, but one scolding from a princess and they’ve got their tails tucked between their legs.”

“Did I overstep, then?” Windblade inquired. She would not apologize. Not for the child whose uninjured hand was currently being bathed by Victorion’s rough tongue. 

“Nah,” Hook shrugged. “It was a lesson they needed, even if I’m a little annoyed they wouldn’t learn it from me. Have you taught before?”

She nodded. “In times of crisis,” she said carefully, “there’s often too many injured per healers, so nursing is always required.”

“Have you led a ward?”

“Several times. For disease and fire events, mostly.”

“Hm.” Hook turned to go, and then he said over his shoulder, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.”

“W-what?” 

He shook his head. “Someone has to get those toerags in line,” he said, “Better you than me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're getting more of Windblade's backstory. When she finishes reading the letter, I'll post the letter in its entirety on my writing tumblr. 
> 
> If anything made you laugh, or feel other feelings, please let me know! It helps to know stuff like that.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while, but in happy news, I have two announcements. 
> 
> 1--I have almost completed this story. You'll have noticed the chapter amount has changed. Yay!
> 
> 2--I recently started a new job, which, _yay,_ , so the timing of nearly completing the story and the new job is...fortuitous. It works out for everyone. :)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include blood, childbirth, and mentions of assisted suicide/mercy killing.
> 
> Your comments are all great, and yes, I am working on the 'how gender and sex work in this 'verse' thing, but right now I have a ton of incoherent thoughts that are refusing to link up and go anywhere. It's coming! I promise

**CHAPTER 21: THE BEGINNING OF REBIRTH**

* * *

_March 2, 1037_

_Iacon_

Starscream whistled to himself as he walked down the family wing. It was a beautiful morning with the promise of spring to the air, and his good spirits had been caused by the fact that there had been dew that morning. There had been enough water in the air for dew.

Good things were going to happen. He was certain of it. 

“Starscream!”

Not even Thundercracker at his most strident could impact his good spirits, he decided as he turned to look at his brother. Thundercracker, unsurprisingly, looked crazed, with his short hair wild and his pupils blown. “You have got to talk to that-- _person_ you’re betrothed to!”

That brought Starscream up short. “What has she done?” he asked warily.

“She has a wild animal! For a pet!”

Starscream looked down his nose at his brother. “So do you.”

“Buster is _domesticated,_ thank you,” Thundercracker drew himself up. “She has a plains cat kitten living with her!”

Starscream paused. “Really.”

“And the kit is scaring Buster. She’s peed in the hallway twice over it!”

“And what do you suggest I do?” Starscream inquired. “If she’s taken the creature in, there’s likely a reason.”

Thundercracker flailed his arms. “Just-- _something!_ ”

“As always, I am guided by your wisdom,” Starscream deadpanned before he returned to his stroll. Windblade’s rooms were on the way, anyway.

He didn’t bother to knock before entering. He had heard some shuffling within, which said that this morning, unlike others, she was present. She had been teaching Hook’s students, to Hook’s gratification--although the whole mess could have been averted if Hook had just taken her up on her offer in the first place--but this morning the students were doing practical work in the city, helping to inoculate against the red pox with spotted cow fever, so Starscream wasn’t surprised she had the morning to herself.

Inside, she was laughing as she dragged a lure on a string for the kit to chase in the main room. Plains cats weren’t large--the largest Starscream had ever seen had only come up to a little above his knee--but they were very active. Windblade clearly knew something of the kind, as her sitting room had been transformed with multiple scratching posts, a wooden tower with padded shelves, and numerous toys on the floor. There was some slight guilt, there--he hadn’t done so much for Mau when Mau was that age.

Windblade did not immediately notice him, or at least, look like she had, but he suspected she knew he was there. When the kit rolled over and started to bat at one of the noisy toys, he cleared his throat and said, “I shudder to think of how these rooms might be transformed once we have children.”

It was a joke, or an attempt at one, but Windblade gave him a sharp look. “That’s aiming high,” she said.

“Thundercracker has asked me to speak to you about that one,” Starscream nodded toward the purring kit. “Apparently it scares Buster.”

“That’s too bad,” Windblade said coolly. 

Starscream arched his brows. “Is there anything else you’d care to share?”

“She was rejected by her dam,” Windblade said as she rose and left the lure behind. “Ravage brought her to me. I will not deny her.”

_Ravage_ was behind this? Then there had to be more to it. “Would you--,” he cleared his throat. “Would you care to take a ride with me? There was dew this morning. I suspect it has burned off by now, but we never did take that tour of the city.”

“And whose fault is that?” Windblade’s bad mood was starting to take down his own good spirits. What had he done to deserve it? 

He eyed her. “I thought you might enjoy the break from your students and their ineptitude.”

Windblade looked down at the kit at her feet. “I need to feed her before I can do that.”

It was a crack in the ice front she had put up, so he took it. “That’s fine.” He watched as she scoop up the kit and draped her over her shoulder, and it was then that Starscream realized she was wearing a heavy wool robe, something that would stand up to the kitten’s claws, over her usual silks. 

He didn’t follow her as he heard her go through the motions of prepping the milk replacement mixture and the quiet purring of the kit as she was fed. Then the telltale noises of changing clothes, verified when Windblade appeared in riding clothes, a long navy robe with a slit down the middle, showing black riding leggings. Her hair remained in the loose knot atop her head, but he supposed he couldn’t have everything. “Is the baby down for her nap?” he asked with more than a tinge of sarcasm.

“‘The baby’s name is Victorion.”

“Dreaming big, were you?” Starscream pushed the door open for her and she stepped through it.

“No more than you,” she said sweetly. 

He made a face at her, which she ignored, and the journey to the stables was passed in simmering silence. His good mood, prior to his interaction with her, was completely gone and he blamed her for it. Why couldn’t she take a joke, and why did she hold onto old resentments? Couldn’t they have moved past it by now?

In the private garden court that the family wing curled around, two trainers were waiting with horses as Starscream and Windblade approached. Starscream’s horse, a tall pure-black gelding, swished his tail as Starscream took out a sugar lump from his pocket and offered it to his horse. 

Windblade was offered the golden-brown mare. “You need a real horse,” Starscream informed her as one of the trainers offered to help her mount. She rolled her eyes at them and pushed herself into the saddle. “The ponies are fine but they aren’t _real_ mounts.”

“I like the ponies,” she protested as she settled into the saddle. She rode like a real person, not in the sidesaddle that the spouses of the Senators had used. He knew to expect it, but since she was wearing nicer clothing than any other time he had seen her riding, it still took him by surprise. The mare fidgeted and darted around, but Windblade was unperturbed.

Once the mare had calmed, Starscream led them outside of their private courtyard and toward the center of the city. The city was bustling with both usual city shenanigans--like the vendors who hawked food and small trinkets--as well as with war preparations. Starscream allowed himself to show his approval for his people’s spirit: while it was more solemn than normal, people still went about normal business and there were knots of people chattering and gossiping. The city survived.

More people cried out greetings than what he expected--and more than half of them were for him, too. Windblade smiled and greeted individuals who came close, at times bending down to look over something. Perhaps in her tutoring she had gotten a chance to meet some of his citizens and they were showing her old wounds and their healing progress. She beamed at the people as she expertly navigated her nervous mare along the busy streets, and Starscream once again, noted that she was good with people. 

It wasn’t cause for jealousy. He was mature enough to recognize that there were places he fell short, even if he never discussed them with anyone. If she could cover up those places he lacked, it would make for a stronger hold on the city. 

They were turning into the poor sections (for a city still rebuilding, it meant ‘dustier than other neighborhoods’) when they heard a call for a medic. Windblade didn’t hesitate as she kicked her horse into a trot toward the voice, and Starscream followed after. 

She didn’t have her medical kit with her, and Starscream could see the curses forming in her head when she realized that. They burst into a slightly larger square than the alley they had come through, where a barefoot child in tattered clothes was screaming for help. Windblade dismounted in a flurry of fabric, and she went over to the child. “What do you need?” she asked urgently.

The child stared at her with red-rimmed grey eyes. “Ma’s havin’ a hard time with the baby,” the child babbled. “She sent me for help, like, while Da an’ the others went other places.”

“Lucky for you, then, that I can deliver,” Windblade said firmly. “Take me to your mother.” She passed her reins to Starscream and lifted the skirt of her robes to follow after the panicked child. 

The alleys were too narrow for the horses to ride two across, so he dismounted and tied their leads together to make a line. He hadn’t been aware that this part of the city existed as it was--their proximity to the walls made scant light and the buildings themselves raced upwards to crowd out the sky in haphazard lines. Laundry was strung across the narrow alleys, with the scent of cookfires, animals (dogs, mostly), and smoke coloring the air, with the underlying scents of shit and piss. 

The alley opened up into another smaller square, where a group of people were hovering outside a badly-made door. The child leading them squawked and waved, and Windblade pushed up her sleeves. “Da, Da! This lady says she can help Ma!”

The child’s father knew who Windblade was, even though the child didn’t. He bowed. “Lady. Can you really help?” Like Hook, he came from a stock that distrusted the usefulness of nobles. 

Windblade nodded. “I can explain how, or I can go help.” 

He didn’t need telling twice. He gestured for the others to stand aside so that Windblade could enter the bottom floor of the building. The door closed behind her, and Starscream tied the horses to a small lamppost that was sputtering light. He looked at the people around the door. “Not allowed in the birthing room?”

They all jumped when they realized just _who_ had been accompanying the princess. “Er--no,” the father said, recovering. He started to bow, then hesitated, and then he offered his hand. “Devcon, sir.”

Starscream took his hand and shook it firmly. “You all know who I am, I hope.”

“Cursed right we do,” one of the others joked, and it lightened the mood from the initial freeze reaction. Starscream grinned. 

“So do you all have someone in the birthing room?”

“Nah,” the jokester replied, elbowing their way to the front. “Me old wife’s done with laboring, or so she tells me. She’s in that room there, assistin’ Devcon’s wifey with their sixth.”

“Sixth,” Starscream repeated, looking to Devcon. “Congratulations.”

“We can’t get a charm that works,” Devcon admitted, shamefaced. “An’ the last little one nearly killed her.”

“So who are all of you?” Starscream said. He couldn’t promise Devcon’s wife would live, even though Windblade would take it as a personal insult that he didn’t. The next best thing was to distract the anxious father. It had always worked on Skywarp, anyway.

Most the names sailed right past Starscream’s ears, except the jokester, who was “Runamuck.” Apt, Starscream decided. 

“What do all of you do?” he asked once the flurry of names had passed. “I’m certain I’ve seen you all before.”

They _did_ look familiar, but there were a lot of faces he had seen in the past few weeks and no names to go with them. Devcon cleared his throat. “I’m a bricklayer,” he said, “you mighta seen me workin’ on that outer wall. Them,” he jerked a thumb at his companions, “do similar.”

“And you came to Iacon…?”

“Wanted to escape the war,” Devcon admitted frankly. “Toward the end, Beta came to me an’ said that she was carryin’ our first--you met her--an’ I realized that a war was no place for a sparklin’. Turns out we wasn’t the only ones who needed to find a way out. Iacon was still takin’ deserters then, afore Megatron closed them gates, so this were the safest place. By the wall, I could lay spells to keep us free of stone and stuff.”

Starscream looked around the square. “Is this all your work?”

“Most of it,” Devcon said, relaxing into the conversation. There were only muffled noises coming from the room, nothing to put anyone into a panic. “All the loose stone helped some, and then we all got a little magic to help it along.”

“Pipes,” one of them said. Was his name _also_ Pipes?

“Woodworkin’,” another informed him.

“Pottery,” Runamuck said gleefully. Starscream wondered what a pot made by the jokester would look like. Probably a cord. 

“We all grew up in places that looked like this,” Devcon continued. “So we made what we know. Sometimes the dirt gets awful bad and it’s hard to get clean water, but it’s safe for our younglins’ an’ that’s the important stuff.”

“The clean water we might be able to work on,” Starscream said absently. “As for the dirt, did removing the loose stone help with that?”

“A little,” Devcon said, fairly. “But in these alleys, it’s hard to get it all.”

Starscream made a mental note to invite this group up to the palace once the Autobots had been beaten once and for all. He could see that this neighborhood was a disease outbreak waiting to happen, and if they had a hand in planning their new neighborhood, they might not fight him so much on it. 

Screaming erupted from behind the door, but though Starscream jumped, no one else did. “That’s usual labor screamin’,” Devcon assured him. “You get used to it.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Starscream looked around. “Have you signed onto a defense roster?”

“Me an’ the boys, we take night shifts,” Runamuck told him. “It’s quiet, an’ we can get our work done that way. Means we’s around durin’ the day to give our wifeys a break with the littles.”

It was an aspect of city--and military--life he had never considered. Like all officers, he had been aware of the camp followers and traveling brothels that accompanied them on their marches, often trading protection and food for other favors when money had been short, but he hadn’t been aware of soldiers whose families followed them from base to base. 

Then again, he had been kept on the move with Megatron’s tether. He had never been able to fully explore those places and to see how those soldiers lived without Megatron’s boot coming down heavy on the back of his neck. 

The screaming petered out to be replaced by a child’s crying. The others around Devcon promptly slapped him on the back and congratulated him, and Devcon found a ledge to lean against, his dark face drawn with exhaustion. The child from earlier kicked the door open to show her father the newest member of the family, who squalled at the touch of cold air. Devcon took the sparkling from his daughter with the air of a professional baby-handler and jiggled it slightly. The sparkling calmed down but still looked displeased at the coldness of the new world it was in. “Beta wants another girl,” Devcon told the sparkling. “So for now we’ll consider you a she.” He looked at his daughter. “How’s your Ma?”

“The lady’s helpin’ with the after birth,” the child said. “Says it’ll only take a minute or so.”

Devcon nodded. “Away, all of you,” he told his group. “S’not right to crowd the wife after a labor.”

They dispersed, but Starscream hesitated. His riding partner was still inside, after all. Devcon saw the hesitation and jerked his head for Starscream to follow him into the building.

The ‘after birth’ looked to be as painful as the labor. Windblade was bloody up to the elbows, with sweat sticking her hair down, but the carrier on the bed was having a worse time. “It hurts,” she wept. “An’ I gots no strength left in these bones!”

“It’s almost done,” Windblade said with grim good humor. “And I haven’t told you to push yet.”

Both of them were insensible to their sudden audience. Devcon cradled his daughter to his chest as he stayed out of the way, and Starscream felt an unaccustomed anxiety as he watched the drama playing out on the birthing bed. The carrier was on the edge of the bed with Windblade between her legs, and the child lunged to her mother’s side. “Hold on, Ma,” the child said as she grabbed her mother’s hand. “The lady said it’s almost done, now.”

The carrier squeezed her daughter’s hand as Windblade said, “All right, push _now_.”

With one giant heave, a mass of tissue was expelled into a waiting bin. The carrier wailed, and the new baby wailed right along with her, but Windblade was already putting the bin aside and pushing her magic into the carrier’s womb. Starscream, watching the shimmering crimson magic, realized that Windblade was using her magic to keep the poor woman from bleeding out. He suspected she was cauterizing the veins.

Finally, she pulled away. “There we go,” she said. “You will need to rest, but you’ll make it.” She gave the carrier a weary smile which, Starscream was surprised to see, the carrier returned. 

“You promise?”

“I promise,” Windblade confirmed. “But you know about what it takes to heal from a new sparkling.”

“Yes,” the carrier said with a sigh. “Lots of bleeding still, pain, and nursing. But I am dear grateful for that charm you gave me.”

Windblade went to a basin and started to clean off her hands. “Remember, take it to one of the healers,” she said, “it needs to be done by one of them.”

“Charm?” Devcon asked. “Beta, what charm?”

“She gave me a design for a charm to keeps me from carryin’ so much,” Beta replied. “It needs inking.”

Devcon looked at Windblade. “It’ll work? Another little will kill her.”

Windblade nodded. “It’s one that the healers in Caminus use when carrying would be too dangerous.”

“Thank you,” Devcon said. Then, “Would you like to hold her?”

Windblade blinked. “The sparkling?”

Starscream tensed. Moment of truth.

“Of course,” Devcon said. “You did help birth her.” 

Windblade held out her arms, and Devcon--clearly used to handling sparklings--planted the newborn in her arms. Windblade instinctively braced the sparkling with one hand holding up the sparkling’s head as she tucked the sparkling against her chest. Starscream eased over to her as Devcon and Beta re-acquainted themselves post-delivery. Her face had softened as she looked at the child, and for the child’s part, the first few minutes of life had exhausted it and it was slowly slipping into sleep. 

She shifted from foot to foot in a steadying movement, one that assisted in rocking the child further into unconsciousness. This close, Starscream saw that though the sparkling looked like a person, it looked like a squished, red scrap of one. “Will the sparkling grow into that face?” he remarked.

Windblade chuckled quietly. “It takes about a month or two for a sparkling to look recognizably as a child.” She was warm with rising adoration, and Starscream felt a little smug. No, he had _not_ been reaching when he had mentioned children earlier. “Such a sweet baby,” she whispered as she bent her head to nuzzle the sparkling. 

“My lord,” Devcon was back. “It would--,” he tripped over his words, “w-would please us both if you were to bless the child.”

Starscream stared, uneasiness chilling him. His magic was death, not life. What blessing could _he_ offer?

Windblade leaned against him, her magic sparking slightly. When he summoned his, her magic bled into his until the small room was awash with carnelian light. He reached out a hand--trying not to shake too visibly--and laid it on the child’s forehead. The skin was soft and he was afraid of squeezing too hard. Their combined magics danced around his arm to his hand, and he cleared his throat before saying, “I hope that,” oh Primus, what _was_ a good blessing? “I hope that happiness will come to you and that you never have to go looking for it.” There. A simple blessing that couldn’t be misused. 

He released the child with some relief. He watched as Windblade returned the newborn to Devcon. “Thank you,” she said. “I haven’t held a sparkling in a very long time.”

Devcon smiled, briefly overcoming his weary father look. “You’re welcome, lady.”

Windblade leaned against him for half a second as they exited the building. “That was lovely.”

“I didn’t exactly anticipate a laboring mother,” he pointed out.

“No,” she agreed as she untied her horse from the lamppost. “But I think that’s what makes it sweeter. You just got to know some of your people, on their terms. You got to bless a child.” She looked at him, and he was grateful that her anger had died down, at least for the moment. “That’s how you win, you know. Not with brute force and power and violence. By caring for your people.” 

“That’s sentimental,” he grumbled.

She shrugged. “Maybe it is. But if you want your people to fight for you? You have to be something worth fighting for.”

And on that cheery note, she mounted up and led him back through the warren of alleys, and when they got back to the palace, she returned to the hospital.

For himself, he had something to think about.

\--

That ride sparked something of a habit. Although it wasn’t daily, due to their rivaling schedules, every two or three days he would come to her with saddled horses to go into the city. Where his druthers would have left them on the main roads, with her in the lead they plunged into the other sides of the city, where his people actually lived. They admired gardens, petted household animals, played with children, and otherwise conducted a charm offensive that even Starscream had to admit was working. 

He didn’t remember everyone’s name, but neither did Windblade, a welcome reminder that she wasn’t perfect. “I got used to doing this kind of work when I was learning how to perform surveys to track disease,” she told him one day after they had been at it for a week and a half. “Most people react badly if you demand to know where they’ve been and if that impacted how they or their family got sick, so you had to learn how to talk to them and make conversation until you could ask naturally. Until I graduated, there was no telling me from any of the other students or Temple acolytes, and I didn’t want to use royal privilege. I didn’t want that to be my reputation.”

“So it prepared you for a life in the Diplomatic Service,” he surmised. When she smiled in answer, he added, “Also in espionage.”

She shook her head at that. “No one ever trusted me with the kind of information that would have been helpful to Caminus.”

“You got to explore the inner workings of cities and their countries,” he pointed out, “if that’s not sensitive, I don’t know what is.”

“I worked to fix it,” she said. “I don’t hate myself so much that I would undo it.”

He snorted. They were still tiptoeing around their main issue, but these rides gave them innocuous topics that were safe to discuss. 

It was in late February that the news he had been waiting for--and dreading--arrived. He was in the daily morning briefing with the city leaders when Ravage brought him the news that the Autobot army was on the Iacon plain. It would still be another week, but war was both literally and figuratively on the horizon. He excused himself from his briefing--they only needed his signature anyway, when he knew what they would agree to about the food supply for noncombatants--and he went to find his betrothed. 

She wasn’t teaching that morning, and was instead in the stillroom. The more experienced nurses under Hook’s command had taken control of the main hospital kitchen to brew the medicines they would need the most, but Windblade’s experience in Camien hospitals and greenhouses meant that Hook trusted her to brew the more specialized potions. 

The stillroom was all damp heat, and Starscream felt more comfortable there than he had been all winter. Windblade herself was dressed for work, like he was, in a head-to-toe cotton dress with gloves and her hair bound back with a cotton band, ostensibly to keep her sweat from trickling into her eyes as she stirred a large cauldron full of something smelly with a long wooden spoon. 

Other herbs were in smaller cauldrons, held over equally smaller flames. Those were tinctures, he guessed, or that she was trying to reduce a potion into a paste. “Need any help?” he asked.

She turned to him, blue eyes a little confused at his presence. She wore a white mask to protect her face, but at his question she yanked it off. “What?”

“Do you need any help?”

She eyed him. “You’re rarely helpful. What’s going on?”

One of the smaller cauldrons had a wooden stick in it, and he used it to stir the contents around. “The Autobots have been spotted on the Iacon plain,” he said. “They’ll be here within a week.”

“I see,” she said. “I suppose I had better take Hook up on his offer of a futon, then. Some of these medicines require round-the-clock attention and I’m not trusting his students with them.”

“You’re more calm than I expected.”

“Would you like me to panic?” she asked wearily. “I have work to do. As long as I have work, I can keep the panic at bay.”

“That’s not healthy,” he said.

She gave him a look. “Pot, meet kettle.”

“That’s different.”

“How so?” she inquired as she wiped off her forehead with a sleeve. 

“It’s me.” He found a stool and perched on it. “What _are_ you making?”

She pointed to the cauldron he had been offhandedly stirring. “That’s a sleep tincture. It’s the third batch. That one,” she pointed to its neighbor, a happily-simmering purple-tinted liquid, “is to help with wound-cleansing, particularly for wounds with a large surface area.”

“What, like abrasions?”

“No, like burns,” she said. “Lavender is good for that. It would be all right for other injuries, but for stab wounds or abrasions, alcohol is better to cleanse those wounds of any debris. But with burns, alcohol can agitate the existing wound and so lavender is better.” She looked around the stillroom. “All of these medicines are to deal with burns or their complications,” she told him. “Hook fears that the Autobots will use battlefire, and that causes more complications than regular burns.”

“And your burn ointment,” now that he was sitting down, the smell of aloe and other herbs in the big pot were more clear, “can deal with battlefire? I thought burn ointment only spread battlefire across skin and deeper into existing wounds.”

“Most burn ointment does,” she agreed as she stirred the pot. The ointment was thickening and starting to stick to her spoon. “But the recipe I have--which I got from one of the sisters in the healing halls--does not. I _suspect_ ,” she stressed the word carefully, “that it is because of what the base of the ointment is. Most burn ointment has wax as the base, particularly wax that is a by-product of oil. Oil and battlefire do not, er, mix well. The recipe I have calls for beeswax instead, and since it is a honey by-product and honey is good for burns…”

“Interesting,” he said. “I wouldn’t have thought of it that way. Battlefire has pitch in it, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, “but the base of the compound is oil. The pitch is what enables it to burn so hot and it, unlike oil, has a thin viscosity. It thins out the battlefire so a little does a great deal of damage.”

“You know more about it than I guessed you would.”

“Here, it’s a weapon of war. At home, it’s a weapon of theft.” When she saw his confusion, she clarified, “Battlefire is a preferred weapon of raiders and bandits. They use a little to bring down palisades or light up homes in an effort to cause chaos. Burns are a frequent side-effect.” She made a face. “Battlefire is easy to make in Caminus, since the north has so many pine forests and we have huge oil reserves in the west. There’s just no way to keep track of it all.”

“So burn ointment, wound cleaner, sleep tinctures...what else do you have brewing?” 

She stopped to take a breath and a sip of water. “Pain management,” she said. “That one I have to be careful of. Poppy fumes can be deadly in this environment, but Hook does not want just anyone brewing up poppy oil. I don’t blame him, but it’s why I’m wearing this.” She gestured to the mask, hung about her neck. “It’s only for those that we can’t help.”

Starscream had seen the damage of battlefire first-hand. If the injury was in the wrong place or if it was big enough, there was no chance of pulling back the victim, but it was an agonizing death. A victim could linger for days, in agony the entire time. An overdose of poppy oil was more merciful. 

“I estimate that the first two or three days will be filled with negotiations,” Starscream said. “Prowl will try to intimidate us into surrender. It won’t work, but we’ll let him believe it for a bit. Once he understands that negotiations will go nowhere, he’ll start with siege engines.”

“I didn’t see siege engines in his camp,” Windblade protested as she heaved the large pot onto a waiting wooden table. It rocked with the weight but held firm. Windblade left the pot there to retrieve large glass flasks that had already been marked with ‘BF Burn Ointment’ in her neat Cybertronian hand. “And I walked around that entire camp.”

“Most siege engines, for ease of travel, can be broken down and packed in wagons,” Starscream told her. “You only bring siege towers if you can be sure the journey is short. They’re too unwieldy over broken ground. No, I suspect Prowl has trebuchets. Those are the easiest to transport.”

“When he discovers he can’t break down the wall with brute force, what then?” Windblade pushed the band up higher on her head to prevent hair tendrils from sticking to her face. “Would he try disease warfare?”

Prowl had tried it before--but so had the Decepticons. “I suspect that your presence would keep him from doing so,” Starscream told her. “If you were able to spell a camp to sleep for 2 days, there’s no telling what you could stop...at least, to his mind. That doesn’t mean he won’t try other things.” He sighed. “The biggest concern in any siege are food and treachery. With the Camien contributions and the gardens within our own walls, I’m not too concerned about food. Treachery, on the other hand…”

“Our rides have helped with that,” Windblade pointed out as she tested the burn ointment’s temperature. Finding it agreeable, she began to spoon it in the flasks. The ointment, once finished, was a purple-green color. “And they’re not just fighting for you. There’s a reason why they did not join the Autobots.”

“This whole venture is stupid,” Starscream replied. He sighed. “And Prowl is many things, but he’s not stupid. I’m concerned that he has someone in his back pocket, and that we’ll be betrayed.”

Windblade frowned as she ladled just enough to fill the top of one flask before moving on to another. “There’s no good litmus test for that,” she said. “And attempting to figure out who it could be will only make you paranoid and lash out against your own people at a time they need to be united.”

He made a face at her that she ignored. “I have to say,” he said as she moved from the second to the third flask. “I’m grateful that you’re over your tantrum.”

She paused. “Excuse me?”

He ignored the warning in her voice. “We’ve been working together for the past week and a half, and you’re not sniping at me anymore. Clearly, you’ve moved past your tantrum. Good for you--I was waiting for you to see the bigger picture.”

Windblade put down the ladle and turned to him. Or rather, turned _on_ him. “I see,” she said, “you think that because I have the ability to compartmentalize and to shift my priorities based on the emerging needs of the moment that I have gotten over my ‘tantrum.’” She crossed her arms. “ _Fuck_ you.”

The vulgarity surprised him. “Hey!” he protested. “I’m complimenting you!”

“Why is it,” she said, “that _I_ am always the one expected to give in and dissemble my feelings to go along with whatever _you_ are doing? You still refuse to acknowledge the point I made about how marriage treats people like me. You refuse to acknowledge how your manipulations have hurt me. And yet because I did something that needs doing, I’m...what, ‘over it?’” She scowled at him. “You did an awful, manipulative thing. Own that.”

“It gets you in a position,” he started, but she slammed her hand down on the table. 

“No, it doesn’t.” The temperature was rising to uncomfortable levels in that small, humid room. “What it gets you is someone who doesn’t have the ability to leave so they have to do the best they can. You’ve made me a virtual prisoner here.”

“You have a lot of freedom for a ‘prisoner’,” he snapped. “You’re taking this too hard, or does every diplomatic marriage have to go through this rigmarole? So you didn’t know, that is not uncommon, and if it hadn’t been for your lout of a brother--.”

“Had I known, I would never have slept with you,” she shouted. “You took advantage. We had so much time alone without any chaperones, and I should have known something was up when my mother did not insist Chromia accompany us everywhere, but you _had_ the time and you chose not to tell me. Maybe my brother is the cause of this ‘rigmarole,’ as you so kindly put it, but he never would have been able to do so had I been informed and able to stop it!”

“So I’m the cause of your misery,” he gave her a bitter smile, “well then, I can do things to make it worse.” He took a step toward her, not entirely certain _what_ he was going to do but he wanted her to hurt, but after that first step, he found his feet would not move.

“Get,” she whispered, “ _out_.”

“Release me from your spell first.”

“The spell will be released when you stop trying to come after me.” She glared at him. “I know you and I took steps.”

“ _Steps?_ ” he hissed.

“Try me,” she said flatly. “I swear you’ll regret it.”

That was a challenge, but it wasn’t worth it in this place. That was fine. There were others.

\--

_March 4, 1037  
Iacon_

Ravage hummed under her breath as she walked the halls to her office. Her trip had thrown off her work schedule, to her staff’s consternation, and with the Autobots almost on their doorstep, she had a lot to make up for. She could not afford any more lost time.

Starscream was waiting for her in her office as she entered. She looked at him, aware that she had locked that the door but the lord of Iacon likely had a skeleton key for every room in the place. “What do you want?”

“I need you to find out what’s going in Windblade’s head.”

Ravage paused. “Allow me to summarize what you need. Instead of going through all of my correspondence and information gained from my spies so I can better guess what moves the Autobots will be making and their weapons and supply numbers, you would prefer I go to _your_ betrothed and smooth over a problem you created. Am I getting that correct?”

“You make me sound so selfish,” Starscream grumbled as he swung his legs up onto the desk. “And it’s something we need. I suspect she has information about what’s going on with the Autobots and has not chosen to share it.”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard _that_ suspicion,” Ravage told him. “You have not told me before because…?”

Starscream shrugged. That could mean many things--Starscream had pulled it out of his ass (most likely), it was something he had been thinking about but only recently had gained enough information to make it an actual suspicion (less likely), or he had suspected Windblade all along but she had pissed him off enough for him to officially allege it (not...unlikely).

“And just how do you suggest I do that?” Ravage inquired as she put down her paperwork. “ _I’m_ not telepathic.”

“Have dinner, take a walk, I don’t care. You’re both ladies, find something to do.”

“That is probably the first time anyone has described me as a _lady_ ,” Ravage remarked. “Fine, but whatever I find out, I’m only the messenger.”

Starscream flapped a hand. Right, right.

“And I’m not doing it now,” Ravage added. “I have paperwork to get through. Shoo.”

To her surprise, Starscream went. 

It was a quiet enough afternoon, broken only by Jazz sliding in. He was doing better, or so Hook had implied, but whatever had caused the injury had made the self-described saboteur wary. “Mornin’,” he said bright as Ravage looked up from a missive regarding Autobot food supplies.

It took her brain a moment to catch up. “It is not actually morning,” she said.

“It’s a state of mind,” Jazz said as he eased into a waiting chair. Then he made a face. “So who taught to make guest seats uncomfortable, you or Soundwave?”

“Me,” Ravage said with amusement. “He was the one who found it useful with the twins.”

“I never did fully understand the ins and outs of your little family. Are you mother or aunt…?”

“Aunt,” Ravage said, “in a way. What do you want, Jazz?” She gestured to her desk. “As you can see, I have plenty to keep me occupied, so.”

“I can almost believe you raised him,” Jazz muttered. “You both hate small talk. No wonder I could never turn either of you.” He cleared his throat. “Is it safe for me to leave?”

“You don’t want to stay?”

“If the Autobots see me, I’m dead,” Jazz said. “And I don’t have an icicle’s chance in hell if I stay. I’ve pissed off too many ‘Cons, whether they’re former or not, for me to risk it, and the whole point of this little jaunt was to have a chance at survival.”

Ravage exhaled. Before she had a chance to answer, there was a quick knock at the door and one of her couriers came in. “News from Caminus,” the courier said before tipping her cap and dropping a fat leather pouch on Ravage’s desk. Then she vanished.

“Sorry,” Ravage murmured to Jazz as she did the counterspells on the pouch to open it. It was a thick sheaf of legal documentation--some kind of agreement. Ravage scanned it and then she understood it was the formal betrothal, with everything that went with it, including a cessation of the princess’ actual citizenship so that she could be made a citizen of Cybertron. She would retain nominal citizenship, necessary for keeping her title, but Caminus would not be obligated to protect her militarily if something happened to her. That would be Cybertron’s responsibility. 

Ravage slid the documents back inside the pouch. It would need signing by the princess. “What do you want?” she asked Jazz. “Because if you’re looking for some kind of estate or title, this really isn’t the week to ask.”

“Like I’d survive living way out in the country like Soundwave,” Jazz scoffed. “I just want it in your mind.”

Ravage did not want Jazz out of where she could keep an eye on him. He had a well-deserved reputation for stirring up trouble, and if he had to stir up trouble, it was going to be in a place where she could stymie him at every step of the way. “I’ll think about it.” She rose with the pouch in her hand. “Now go. And I’ve updated my traps since you arrived, so don’t try to get in here while I’m gone.”

Jazz tossed a salute in her direction and Ravage went off in search of the princess.

She wasn’t in her rooms, but as the setting sun draped gold and red across the wooden floors, Ravage found the princess in the private courtyard of the family wing, discussing something with Scoop and one of the palace artisans. “I’d like a gazebo,” the princess was saying, “big enough to have waterproof cushions on the bench all the way around the interior, and then outside of it, rows of varying flowers--lavender in one row, rose in another, each separated by a stone path. Is that doable?”

Ravage came to a stop about five paces behind the princess. The artisan scratched his head. “I think so, but the biggest concern will be making that gazebo strong enough for the elements. The best option would be marble, but marble’s not native to this area and getting slabs of it will be difficult.”

“I saw some of the carved wooden gazebos in the city,” the princess told him. “For now, I find that acceptable. I would like the colors of the gazebo to mirror the colors of the flowerbeds.”

“Actually, lady,” the artisan said, “looking at how you’ve planned those rows, with pink, purple, blue, and green everywhere, it might be a better choice to do white. The stone for the path, though, doesn’t have to be marble?”

“No. Reclaimed stone from the city is fine.”

“Right then.” The artisan looked at Scoop. “That’s good for me. What about you?”

“You want,” Scoop peered down at a list, “lavender, rose, hydrangea, cornflowers, comfrey, crocus, and foxglove, is that right?”

“Yes,” the princess said.

Ravage blinked at ‘foxglove.’ The others, she knew, had cosmetic and medical uses, but foxglove was poisonous. 

“I can get a hold of those,” Scoop said reluctantly, “but it’ll take time.”

“That’s fine,” the princess assured him, “I’m hardly expecting this to be ready tomorrow or a week from now. It’s just intended to be a sanctuary.”

The artisan nodded. “This is a good space for it,” he said. “The sun comes down right perfect.”

The princess smiled at them both. “Thank you.” As she turned to look at Ravage, the other two dispersed. “Lord Ravage?”

“I was hoping we could speak,” Ravage said. She indicated the courtyard. “A private sanctuary?”

“I’ve found plants bolster me when I am struggling,” the princess replied. 

“Ah.” Ravage cleared her throat as Princess Windblade joined her. “I received the formal betrothal agreement today, my lady.”

“I was expecting that to come soon.”

“I will require your signature.”

“I expect so,” the princess said.

“Could I get it soon?” Ravage asked, almost timidly. The princess was giving off waves of something that Ravage couldn’t pinpoint, and once again she was reminded of how much she didn’t know about the princess. 

“Of course. Will you come with me to my rooms?” The princess didn’t bother to wait for Ravage’s approval as she turned with a flick of her skirts to head back into the palace proper. Ravage followed, at a loss for any other kind of action.

Once in her rooms, the princess rang a bell that connected to the kitchens, pulling twice. “So they know I have a guest,” she explained to Ravage, and then she threw more logs onto the fire and allowing a blast of welcome heat. Ravage saw that Victorion was working on a scratching post, and she clicked her tongue to the kit.

Victorion left the scratching post for pets from Ravage, who knelt to pet her better. While Princess Windblade moved around them, Ravage asked the kit silently, _Have you seen her letters?_

Victorion considered the question as she scratched her ear with her hind foot. _There’s one_ , the kit replied, _it keeps making her cry._ As Ravage stroked the kit’s head, Victorion showed her what the princess had been weeping over.

It was written in Camien, so Ravage didn’t have a hope of understanding. Likely one of the letters from the Mistress of Flame. _Any others?_

_There’s a big pouch she goes through sometimes,_ Victorion said reluctantly, _but I don’t like how it smells._

There would be no getting through that one, Ravage knew.   _If it ever bothers you less, please look at it. It could mean her safety._

Victorion’s ears flattened. _Really?_

Ravage nodded. Victorion sat on her hind legs and cried, and the princess turned toward her. “Oh, sweetspark,” she said as she knelt. Victorion went over to her, still crying. “It’s all right. You’re all right.” Victorion tucked her head into the curve of the princess’ shoulder and curled into the princess’ hold, a robust purr already replacing her cries. 

‘Sorry,’ the princess mouthed to Ravage as she consoled her kit. Ravage didn’t know if the admission meant Victorion would trust her more or less, but it was worth a shot. Being the princess of Caminus, Princess Windblade could potentially have access to Intelligence that Cybertron didn’t, and for the safety of Cybertron, Ravage would need access to that.

Once Victorion stopped requiring consolation, she hopped down from the princess’ arms and into the bedroom. “She’s been shadowing me more,” the princess said. “I’ve received news from home that my brother is desperately ill and she recognizes how upset I am.”

There was a point to _Ravage_ knowing this, but before Ravage could ponder it further, some of the kitchen staff came inside with a rolling cart. It was, once again, standard winter fare of soup, bread, and tea, but this time the soup was a thick stew of onions, potatoes, and pork. They sat and were served before the staff retreated.

“Your brother is ill?” Ravage asked as she swirled her spoon in the stew. It looked like a good stew, full of root vegetables that could grow inside during winter, but too many vegetables made her queasy. 

The princess nodded. “I suspected it when I was there, but now it has been confirmed. He has the hijacking illness, but to the sorrow of his wife, it is in the marrow of his bones, not any of his organs where it could be treated.”

It was a death sentence, and yet...Ravage peered at the princess. “You were upset?”

“Upset at how I am _not_ upset,” the princess said wryly. “My brother is…” she reddened and played with her napkin. “He is one who is easily convinced he is right and not so easily convinced he could be wrong.”

Ravage nodded slowly, although that still did not explain it fully. 

“He has a frightening temper,” the princess relented, “and he has turned it on me several times, occasionally even indulging in violence. He was not one I wanted to see inherit, but the line of succession is what it is.”

_That_ made more sense. “He hurt you?”

“Several times,” the princess said. “The announcement of mine and Starscream’s betrothal--that was his doing. After he set me on fire, my mother laid down strict boundaries, which he observed to the letter and restricted his actions to mere emotional warfare.”

Ravage blinked several times. “I see.”

“So I do not regret that he is dying,” the princess said, “but I feel I should be more guilty about my relief at his imminent passing.”

“What is it about families and betrayal?” Ravage murmured. “My own--,” she shut up.

The princess waited as she ate her stew in neat bites. It was clear she was too well-bred to pry, but she was still curious. Finally, Ravage said, “My own family has its history of betrayal, but at least ours was sparked by environmental concerns. It was not something we could necessarily have prevented.”

“How so?” the princess inquired. “Forgive me, I have just never heard that before.”

“My family lived in an isolated village in the middle of the Sigma Forest--to the west,” Ravage clarified before the princess could ask. “We were not affected by the workings of Vector Sigma. We were also a village of shapeshifters, a remnant of a time when we worked out contracts with local creatures to prevent food crises, or so village lore went, in any case.” She fell silent, unsure of how to explain the betrayal without what the betrayal was. “Whenever there _was_ a crisis, and it went on for too long, we misbehaved.”

‘Misbehaving’ was putting it lightly.

“My brother was supposed to die at birth,” the princess said. “I saved his life. He has been wracked with illness ever since, and part of me wonders if I should have let him die then, but I was a child and my mother was in distress. How could I have known what would happen?” She bowed her head. “The Temple was also insistent on teaching me that everything happens for a reason. What if his survival and subsequent mistreatment of me was necessary to my development as a person?”

“I don’t believe that,” Ravage said harshly.

The princess looked up. “I’m sorry?”

“I do not believe that everything that happens for a reason,” Ravage repeated. “I believe that things happen and people make choices in response and you have to deal with the ramifications of those choices. But I do _not_ believe everything happens for a reason. Otherwise, my life is…” she trailed off. “I made a decision to be a better person than my father,” she said finally. “He was a low bar, but it was a decision I made for myself. I’ve been in too many places where there was nothing but bad choices to make to believe that the underlying scenario had been orchestrated to lead me there. No one who’s fought in a war would believe that.”

The princess leaned forward and refilled Ravage’s teacup. “Am I wrong, then, for not mourning him?”

Ravage leaned back in her chair to look the princess over. “I suspect you’ve taken a lot of shit over the years from multiple sources about why you haven’t done more to repair your relationship with him.”

“I have, but,” the princess hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about it more recently, and it has occurred to me that my level of play with him once he was old enough _to_ play could have been damaging to him. I could be...boisterous and overpower him, and did. I also dropped him on two separate occasions. Once, it was because I was holding him and my ankle folded into a nasty sprain, and the second time was because we were playing on a raised level and when I threw something at him, he caught it but the force drove him off the ledge he had been perching on. He ended up with with a head injury and a broken wrist. I had not been aware of how close he was to the edge and I didn’t mean to but…”

“Kids are irrational thinkers,” Ravage said. “At the time, they blame others for things that older ones would recognize were accidents. Does he still blame you for those? Does your mother?”

“Neither have mentioned it, but my mother’s guess at when my brother’s resentment began with me happened around the time of the second accident.” She sighed. “I don’t mean to go over actions that still make me feel guilty--and did then!--but the more I think about why I should be more upset, I have this thought process and then I’m tied up in knots.”

The princess could wait to hear Ravage’s full story. She had gotten what she needed for Starscream. “So I’m guessing this announcement of the betrothal was like your brother’s last fuck you, huh?”

The princess nodded. “At first, I thought he had just _announced_ it, and that my mother and Starscream were as blindsided as I was. If that was the case, then the betrothal could have been eased but...carefully, to prevent bruises to his dignity. After I confronted him, I discovered it had been an existing plot by my entire family and Starscream, and that just made it worse. I had always considered my brother’s opinions of me an outlier, but discovering that it had been an entire family plot to shuffle me off…”

So even royals were capable of common family issues. Ravage found that sad. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” the princess said. “And I have decided that if I am going to be here, the least I can do is create a space that I love, for me.”

So that was the impetus behind the designs for the private courtyard. With that logic, Ravage  knew that Starscream would have a hard time stopping its developments, if he even had such intentions. He had spoken to some of the palace glassmakers about creating a personal greenhouse for the princess, but he hadn’t mentioned that to her yet, Ravage would bet. 

“I will just need your signature on these,” Ravage said as she offered the pouch to the princess. “And then I can leave you to your designs.”

“I do hope you will give Starscream a favorable report,” the princess remarked as she took them. Ravage started, and the princess--Windblade--gave her a wry look. “I suspect he listens to you more than he listens to anyone else.”

Once the papers were signed, Ravage fled. She had not expected that Windblade would find her so transparent, and it discomfited her. She had underestimated the princess from Caminus. She hoped the ramifications would not sting too badly.

\--

_March 5, 1037  
Iacon_

Starscream was startled out of a paperwork reverie when Ravage dropped a full stack of documentation on his desk. He nearly fell out of his chair and straightened carefully before glaring at her. “What?”

“I told you how you should have done this,” she said. “If you had gone ahead and done this according to your lights without any input from any of us, then fine, you weren’t warned. But you were, and now you suspect your own betrothed of who knows what because you didn’t feel the need to pull her into the loop.”

Ah. “You spoke to her.” 

Ravage _glared_. “Damn straight I did, and your sick little game played right into the complicated power dynamics between her and the rest of her family. This is not a place I want to be in.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Straighten out your damn house, Starscream, before it collapses like it’s made of cards.”

“I don’t have to justify my decisions--.”

“Oh yes you do, when those decisions impact what _I_ do. For the record, I don’t think she’s engaging in Intelligence with anyone, including Caminus.” Ravage sighed, turning from angry cat to disappointed mother in an instant. “I thought you were doing better.”

That stung. Before he could respond, she held up a hand. “Don’t ask me to manage your family again. _You_ need to do it.” With that, she left his office, and he frowned at the paperwork she left behind. 

So Windblade was willing to speak with Ravage, and Ravage was willing to take her side? He had known Ravage for a long time, and she had staked out her official neutrality a long time ago (except when it came to Soundwave. She would always take Soundwave’s side, no matter what), so the fact that Ravage was willing to take a side might mean he had miscalculated. He sighed. He _was_ going to have to talk to Windblade, a notion that set his stomach to churning. 

He put it off in favor of the paperwork on his desk. It would keep him busy while he built up in his head what he needed to say. The key, he decided, was not to let her speak. If he could everything out that he needed to say, without interruptions, surely she would see that he was in the right for doing what he had done. Maybe then this stupid argument could be over.

Finally, he had completed his existing paperwork.  Cities still needed to be fed and taxes paid, no matter the wolves at the door. 

He stood and stretched, and then he left his office to go to the kitchens. Food usually helped serious discussions, and while he was there, he put in an order for a tureen of soup, a loaf of crusty brown bread, and a pot of tea. It would take the cooks about an hour to assemble the order, which worked for him just fine.

He chose to enter Windblade’s rooms through their shared door instead of the front door. He was ceding the terrain to her, but he wanted her to off-balance by his arrival instead of permitting his presence. To his surprise, when he did open the door, he found her curled up on the bed, on top of the sheets, fast asleep. That damn cat of hers was stretched across her feet, and at the sound of the door opening, the cat sat up and mewed quietly.

Windblade remained asleep. She was in working clothes with a small stain on her collar that looked like blood. Starscream hesitated before he sat down next to her on the bed and then, very gently, placed a hand on her shoulder. He was never sure how people would wake up, so he preferred to stay out of the firing line.

Windblade snapped awake and she looked up at him. “Wha--Starscream?”

“Good evening,” he told her. “You’re to bed earlier than I expected.”

She yawned and turned onto her back to look at him more fully. “I was teaching and brewing and then,” she stretched, “Hook got a nasty surgery and needed an extra pair of hands that knew how to properly cauterize. It was supposed to be a two-hour operation but ended up being five and a half. I was exhausted, so.” She yawned again. “What do you need?”

“I thought we might,” he grimaced, “ _talk_.”

The sleepiness was slowly clearing from her blue eyes. There was a crease in her cheek, showing how hard she had been sleeping. It made him soften toward her, at the hint of vulnerability. “You needn’t make it sound like torture,” she said wryly. “If we’re to make this work at all, talking is something we’re going to have to do.”

“But you do it so much better,” he whined, before he reminded himself that they needed to discuss serious matters. “I am--not used to having to explain myself. The people who know me and have lived this long can generally figure what I’m about or that it will reveal itself in time.”

Windblade blinked, all traces of exhaustion gone. She reached out to pet the cat, who rose and arched her back before sauntering to Windblade’s side and collapsing into the curl of Windblade’s body. “That may have worked during the war,” she said, “but you’re leading people who would rather be civilians now. There are times when you will need to explain your decisions and actions instead of relying that they trust you. You are not exactly their commanding officer, anymore.” She stroked the cat’s head. “And _I_ would like to know what exactly I am trusting you to do.”

It was a fair point, even if he hated it. “I was...concerned,” he told her, “that if you knew of my plans that you would stop them. I knew you were planning to take a two to three year assignment here, but I wanted to make it more reliable than just your word. Additionally, when I discovered how our magics combine,” he grimaced again, “I spoke to Metroplex.”

“You _what?_ ”

“What, you think he’d only talk to you?” Starscream sniffed. “I’ve never heard of anyone having life magic, ever, but here you were. Death witches happen every few generations, so that part wasn’t so surprising to me. Nova Prime had death magic, actually. So when our magic combined, I went to the oldest being around to ask, and instead, he told me a story.” 

The cat tilted her head so that Windblade would scratch her under the chin. Spoiled creature.

“He told me about Solus and Megatronus,” Starscream said as he watched her. “I know that Caminus has their own version of the story, but the version he told me was what Primus knew at the time. That Solus and Megatronus had been deeply in love, and their powers had been designed to be a last resort for the fight against Unicron, and after that fight was over, they were supposed to guard the borders of life and death. But Liege Maximo turned Megatronus against Solus, because Liege Maximo wanted Solus for himself. Megatronus nearly killed her--he certainly thought he had--and Solus fled to what became Caminus, to heal and to be apart from the other Primes.”

“She built Caminus as a refuge, to be safe for her people but inhospitable to everyone else,” Windblade said quietly. “It’s one of the reasons why Carcer has never been able to gain a foothold--the very land resists it.”

“Which Prime founded Carcer?” Starscream asked curiously.

Windblade shrugged. “No one knows. They don’t care about Primes all that much.”

“Anyway, Megatronus chose to wander from then on. Primus chose to let Megatronus believe that he killed Solus to better protect her, and Megatronus wandered so much that he ended up departing this plane for the one that holds life and death apart. In doing so, he gave up his magic to future generations, in the hopes that they would do better with it than he did. But the way he did it,” Starscream shook his head, “it took away his ability to influence them. That’s why we ended up with monsters like Nova Prime.”

“So you heard this story and decided it meant we were meant to be together?” Windblade demanded. “Why not _tell_ me?”

Starscream shrugged. “I wanted to do the proper thing.”

“The proper thing,” Windblade repeated.

“In Cybertron, you ask permission of the parent before you ask your partner.”

“But you made it seem like I knew!” Windblade protested. “To Afterburner, at least.”

“I intended for you to hear it from me at _some_ point,” Starscream said. “But if you heard it from Afterburner, he might have prejudiced you.”

“And instead, you set it up so I heard it from my brother at the same time the rest of the Camien court did,” Windblade’s eyes hardened. “Well done.”

“We had--your mother, sister, and me--made an arrangement where it would be included in the treaty but not discussed, so that I could court you. Your sister insisted on that. It was your brother who decided to make the announcement, completely independently of anyone else around.” Starscream’s mouth flattened in an effort to control his temper. “I was almost as blindsided as you were. I underestimated his petty nature.”

“That was your mistake,” Windblade told him bitterly. 

He sighed. “I still _would_ like to do this properly. My parents married for love. I had no reason to think that I would not be able to do otherwise.”

“You are not the problem,” Windblade said. “Well, at times you are. I’m not always certain I am safe around you.” He conceded that. “But the problem is marriage itself. I have to give up my citizenship and its protection for this, to begin with. Then the rights I lose...I grew accustomed to my independence when I started traveling in earnest. I learned how to be self-sufficient, that I would not always be deferred to, and how to travel with only a guard instead of a full coterie of maids and other servants. I like that. Marriage would remove that.”

“I can guarantee that you will need to be independent and self-sufficient in this role,” he told her seriously. “And deference is not promised with my people. There are satirical periodicals, for a start.” He made a face, and she giggled. “As for the coterie of servants, while there are some I would insist on--a private secretary, a master of the robes, your guards--there is nothing to say that you have to have so many servants you’re tripping on them. I don't like so many servants, you may have noticed.” He shrugged again. “Too many opportunities for assassins.”

“That doesn’t answer my more pressing issues,” she reminded him.

He stretched. “Well, part of what I’ve brought Ultra Magnus here to do is to write a constitution. I’m sure we can expand spousal rights while we’re at it. On top of that,” he dropped his hands to his lap as the cat rose up to splay herself half across Windblade’s body. “There are quite frankly issues I don’t give a damn about. I find crop reports and sanitation requests utterly mind-numbing, but you seem to thrive on that sort of minutia. I’d rather hand the day-to-day physical running of the city over to you so I can focus on more abstract matters, like taxation and legal rights.”

She stilled. “You mean that?”

“You already talk to Metroplex,” he reminded her, this time. “It’s merely an extension of what you already do.” 

“True.” She started to pet the cat again. “I’d like that arrangement in writing, if you please.”

“Like any good lawyer,” he teased. “Fine.”

Just then, there was a knock on the door and the servants came in with his food order. It took the both of them to remove the cat so that he and Windblade could eat, and even as they did so, Starscream was aware there was more they needed to discuss, but he had accomplished what he had set out to do.

A good start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talking happens! They're growing up. 
> 
> I'm really fascinated by the Liege Maximo-Solus-Megatronus triangle. I know there's a few different takes on it, but I see it as a thinly-veiled _Othello_ triangle, and that's how I'm choosing to write it.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your comments make me smile! 
> 
> This was one of my favorite chapters to write. Everyone's on their very best political behavior, and it was fun to write the dialogue. So many multiple meanings.

**CHAPTER 22: THROUGH A MIRROR WARPED**

* * *

_February 28, 1037_

_The Iacon Plains_

The Autobot cavalcade, denied their magical shields and therefore suffering a countless amount of dust and cold, was slow. Prowl itched in the saddle for them to move faster, even though he knew they couldn’t. The large wagons containing food, supplies, and the siege engines could only go at the speed navigated by the oxen, and the plains, despite lacking vegetation, were pitted and had several rises and depressions that slowed the oxen even further. 

Iacon had always been a place he had loved, prior to the war. Praxus could be cold and dark in the winter, and it felt like Iacon was always full of life. He had never partaken in the parties and excess that marked the Senate, too devoted to duty and his work, but he had liked to view the constant press of people from outside his window. 

The notion that such a city, one that he had loved and taken into himself, was in the hands of Starscream made him simmer with anger. Starscream was a traitor, fruit of a fractured state, and he had no right to something Prowl had claimed. 

“Calm down,” said Prime. “You’re making your horse nervous.”

Sentinel Prime had hated most of the people he was ostensibly serving and protecting, but he cared for animals. It had always made Prowl wary, even when he had been Sentinel’s chief of staff--no one whose affections were so lopsided could be trusted to act in people’s welfare. He had guided Sentinel, or tried to, but Sentinel hadn’t listened and it drove him to his doom.

Death hadn’t changed him much.

Slowly, Prowl relinquished his grip on his reins. “You’ve been more cheerful since we got onto the plains,” he accused quietly. “Why?”

Prime grinned. “We’re getting closer to our goal,” he pointed out. “That little detour didn’t dip into our food supplies and soon we will have accomplished what we set out to do. Cybertron will have a Prime again.” 

Or so Prime thought, in any case. After the promise followed by the reeking failure of Optimus, Prowl was not certain that Primes _deserved_ to rule anymore. It wasn’t a problem for the moment. “There’s still a siege to come,” he reminded Prime. “And Starscream does well in that kind of thing, whether he’s the aggressor or defender. Do you remember the Siege of Vos?”

Prime’s lips tightened at the reminder. It had been the first act of real war, and Sentinel had charged into it, mistakenly thinking that since a child of thirteen led one of the most fractured cities in Cybertron that it would be an easy victory. The prior year’s attempt at subduing the Vosian rebellion hadn’t taught him anything, and once Starscream knew he could inspire his people--with Megatron as his right hand--he led them to victory. It was the opening salvo to what became an utterly ruinous war. 

Sentinel had been a casualty of it, dead by Megatron’s hand. The loss of the forceful, militaristic Prime had set the Senate back into confusion, which allowed Megatron and Starscream to quickly overtake the Southern territories. By the time the Senate had reluctantly decided on Optimus--the only remaining candidate that the Matrix of Leadership would not reject--Megatron had coalesced his forces into a proper army and was marching on Altihex. 

Sentinel’s demise had come because of his overconfidence and easily wounded pride--a combination that also took down Megatron, Prowl would bet. It was Starscream’s turn to fall victim to it. 3 years of ‘peace’ should have made him complacent indeed.

“This will be nothing like the Siege of Vos,” Prime said finally. “These aren’t his people, this isn’t his ancestral home. It’s merely a place he’s been living. And the people under his command,” he snorted dismissively, “Autobot deserters, noncombatants, and former Decepticons? How can he possibly hope to get that disparate a group to fight someone else instead of each other?”

“They’ve been holding up fairly well so far,” Prowl observed. “Under trying circumstances, I might add.” It wasn’t that he disagreed with Prime, but he--alongside everyone else who knew Starscream--had been surprised when Starscream had lasted more than a year in charge, even with assassination attempts. There had been no coups since his first winter as leader, no other attempts at regime change. How had he done it?

And how badly could it backfire on Prowl?

“No doubt he’s talked them into banding together under his leadership because there was no one else,” Prime said. “Megatron had treated them badly, not that it took an oracle to know that _that_ would happen, “ rich talk coming from _Sentinel Prime_ , “and Starscream killed him. He was their savior from a tyrant. But now that we are coming, they will know that he is not their only choice--that he doesn’t _have_ to be their leader. The longer that siege runs, the greater the chance of internal treachery that will give us our victory,” Prime smiled at Prowl. “You see, how easy it will be? You worry too much.”

And you don’t worry enough, Prowl replied silently. He has survived things no one thought he could, and now he has that-- _bitch_ on his side. The only way they would succeed would be to publicly kill Starscream, which unfortunately meant not to drag it out the way Prowl would prefer, and then hustle that whore out, stage left, before the city decided to revolt. It would need to be seen as a fast stroke, and nothing else.

Well, there was another way. It had been something he hadn’t intended to use, but as his spite rose, it decided the matter for him. When he had made his arrangement with Pharma--for Pharma to have room to experiment as long as those experimentations would favor the Autobots--Pharma had decided to play with disease, content he would have Prowl’s protection.

He wasn’t entirely wrong, but Prowl had limited Pharma’s ‘play’, too discomfited by the notion that disease was something that _could_ be played with, and besides, resurrecting Prime was more important. The Autobots would follow a Prime where they wouldn’t follow Prowl.

Springer galloped down the line until he came up to Prowl. “There’s something you want to see, sir.” He offered his spyglass and Prowl took it, extending it and focusing the magics until he could see the spire of Iacon in the distance. It made his heart squeeze with longing for home.

Then he saw what Springer had. “Is that a _wall_?” he sputtered. “How could they have built it so quickly?”

“It will limit the range of the siege engines,” Springer said. As Prowl slowly collapsed the spyglass, he thought he spied a self-satisfied smirk tucked into the corners of Springer’s mouth. “And the time it will take to bring down the wall will bite into our resources.”

Prime glanced at Prowl before looking back at Springer. “We carry on. We have ways around walls.”

Springer arched his brows before looking at Prowl, who nodded. Unhappily, Springer took back his spyglass and went back to the front of the column.

Prime cleared his throat. “Springer is a problem.”

“He doesn’t need solving,” Prowl replied. “Not yet.”

\--

_March 1, 1037  
The Iacon Plains_

Springer poked the fire that his team was centered around. They had eaten, standard soup and rice, and then Roadbuster brought out his famous hip flask. He offered some to Springer, who refused, before the flask was passed around their circle.

“You okay, Cap?” Topspin asked quietly under the chatter from the rest of the team. “You don’t look too happy about us bein’ here.”

Springer turned his head slightly. “Got some bad feelings,” he said. “Like we’s not meant to be here.”

Topspin nodded solemnly. Any soldier that survived multiple battles became superstitious--using a different weapon before a major battle was asking to be killed, a nip of drink kept the ghosts away--and they had all learned to pay attention to their feelings. Springer, having survived so much, was legendary for his instincts. “Like the ground don’t want us walkin’ on it, right?”

Springer nodded. “An’ I don’t like how’s we got here.” Normally, he matched Prowl’s speech to the exact inflection, but whenever he talked to his team, he fell into their speech patterns. It was part of what made him such a good recon agent. “No way Impactor shoulda been chosen to protect a hostage.”

Topspin agreed. “Not a good choice, that.”

Perceptor straightened. “Why do you think he was chosen?” 

Springer looked across the fire to his sniper. “Why do _you_ think he was chosen?”

Perceptor stiffened and fiddled with his lenses. “Surely Prowl would not be so stupid.”

“‘Less it worked,” Hubcap said quietly. “Think, like. Say that Impactor done what he did, and then Prowl comes up, all angry and vengeful, and ‘saves her’ or somethin’. Then she’d be right grateful, wouldn’t she? Willin’ to work with us.”

“That presumes she is an idiot,” Perceptor snapped. “Anything that happens to a hostage under our watch is our fault, regardless of who stops it.”

“Prowl don’t think much of other people’s smarts,” Twin Twist mused. “Even if it’s proved right in front o’his eyes. She was a diplomat, not jus’ a princess. She’s gotta be as smart as him, and from the places she gone, she woulda traveled dangerous roads and knew.”

“Tha’s not e’en the real problem,” Roadbuster said with a slight hiccup. They all paused to listen to him. “We’s been led by a dead man, no matter tha’ the dead man’s Prime. Primus won’t thank us for that, an’ Iacon neither.”

“Do you believe this siege will be successful?” Perceptor demanded of Springer. It was a good question, and one everyone wanted to hear the answer to.

Springer’s instincts warred with his knowledge of Prowl’s obsession. “It depends,” he said reluctantly. “It depends on how many tricks Prowl’s got stashed away, an’ how prepared the city is. If it lasts longer than a few days, they’ll win. That’s that.”

Prowl was not universally loved by the Wreckers. He was too fond of getting them mixed up in his power schemes, and all of them had discovered they had a taste for peace. Springer’s observation finished any complicated feelings they had about this little venture. “Whatchu want from us?” Topspin asked.

Springer glanced across the plain. It was a moonless night, and he shivered as dust was whipped up by the wind. “Talk to the other soldiers. _Quietly_ , mind. Figure out where they’s at. If enough say ‘no’, Prowl might just have to listen.”

It was a risky venture, but it was better than nothing.

\--

_March 6, 1037  
The Iacon Plains_

Prowl came to Springer’s side. Their pace was still achingly slow, but every day brought them closer to the walls. “What do you have your eye on?”

Springer passed him the spyglass. “It looks like a messenger.”

“A _Camien_ messenger,” Prowl noted as he saw the Camien flag on the diplomatic pouch of the rider. “What is a Camien messenger doing here? They must have something of importance.”

“To interfere with a messenger is like interfering with a diplomat,” Springer warned.

Prowl looked at him in surprise. “Who said anything about interfering? I just think they might want a hot meal and a soft bed. Well, soft- _ish_ bed.”

Springer narrowed his eyes but when Prowl had that glint in his eyes, there wouldn’t be any arguing with him. “I’ll go fetch them.” He whistled to his team and kicked his horse into a gallop. It would be easy to capture a lone courier, even if it ran against every instinct he had. Couriers were nearly at the same level as diplomats in regards to  ‘do not interfere with.’ 

Hubcap had perfected a little cantrip that would ‘pause’ someone just long enough to silence them or capture them. He used it now, leveraging himself up in the saddle to toss the cantrip at the courier. The horse and rider immediately stopped--thankfully, the horse’s hooves were on the ground. No Wrecker killed a horse if they could help it.

Hubcap released the cantrip once they surrounded the courier. The horse stumbled to a halt and the courier stiffened at the sight of the team--they would have appeared to have come from nowhere, Springer remembered. “Do you speak Cybertronian?” he called. 

The courier hesitated, but their eyes landed on Topspin, who was examining a lethal-looking crossbow. “Yes,” the courier said, their accent making the word sound more like punctuation. “It is a crime to interfere with couriers and messengers.”

“We’re not committing a crime,” Springer told them, “we are offering you hospitality. Surely you’d like a hot meal and a bed.” He glanced up at the sky. The sun was going down, painting the sky in broad gold and indigo stripes. “It gets colder once the sun goes down, and you don’t want to kill your mount.”

The courier hesitated again, their hands flexing on the reins. Springer waited. Anyone with a sense of pragmatism would go along with it, but even the most pragmatic person had their pride, and the courier’s was clearly pricked with anger by what was going on. “I thank you for your offer of hospitality,” the courier said at last. 

Good. Springer turned his horse. “Follow me,” he said over his shoulder. He spurred his horse forward, and when his team fell into a loose circle with him at the head, he knew the courier was following him and hadn’t tried to run for it. If they had, Topspin would have proved that the crossbow wasn’t there as a prop.

Springer hated to do it, but it wasn’t worth sparking a mutiny over, either. 

The ride back to the army didn’t take long. They had started to make camp for the night. Primus’ curse of drought didn’t stop terrible winds that picked up the loose soil and etched that soil into every available surface, and from the cold twist in the rising breeze, those winds were on their way. 

It might have been Thundercracker, too, Springer admitted to himself. 

Prowl’s tent was always the first up and the last to be broken down. Springer dismounted and assisted the courier in dismounting. He kept his hands away from the courier’s pouch; that was for Prowl to do. Prowl was seated at his desk, flicking through dispatches. He nodded to Springer and then the corner--he wanted Springer to stand there. Springer obeyed as the courier held onto the pouch straps with a white-knuckled grip. “It is a crime to detain a courier,” the courier said steadily.

Prowl didn’t bother to stand up. He just looked up at the courier with wry, condescending amusement. “It’s only a crime if it happens between two countries that recognize each other,” he said. “And as it happens, your government hasn’t recognized mine, so it’s not a crime.”

The courier’s lips thinned. “Oh, is it a government? It looks more like a compilation of dirty, unhappy people.”

Springer mentally gave the courier points. Prowl straightened in his chair. “It’s a government,” he said mildly. “I’ll take that pouch now.”

The courier shook his head. “It won’t open for you,” he said. “You don’t have the counterspell--and if I’m forced to give it to you, it won’t work.”

“Force? Who said anything about force?” Prowl stood up and came around to the courier. Something glimmered at the tips of his fingers, and Springer remembered that back when Prowl made sense, Jazz had taught him a few things. 

Prowl’s hand whipped out and struck the courier on the temple. It was a light blow, nothing fatal, but the courier folded like a limp noodle. Prowl stooped over the courier to retrieve the pouch and then brought it back to his desk.

Springer shifted. He suspected it was a sleep spell. Should he collect the courier or…?

He had been chosen as leader of the Wreckers by Prowl to have his own mind and to restore the honor--such as it was--of such a disreputable unit. For Prowl to have him in the room now meant something. Springer straightened and cleared his throat. “What to do with the courier?”

“Leave him,” Prowl said casually as he poured some kind of spell dust on top of the sealed pouch. It immediately turned red. He hummed and reached for a different powder. “He’ll sleep all night and then tomorrow we’ll put him back on his horse. That spell has a bit of forgetting to it--he won’t remember we stopped him. He’ll just think he lost some time, something not unusual to couriers who travel so often their eyes get accustomed to the landscape.” The second spell powder turned green, and Prowl blew on it. The pouch unlatched. “No matter how good a locking spell, there is always a counterspell,” he murmured.

Prowl slid out a fat leather envelope, and when he opened it and took a lot at the top page of the document, he chuckled. “Oh, she is far more stupid than I gave her credit for,” he said. “She should have waited. I can’t _wait_ to tell her what a colossal mistake she’s made.” He laughed some more, and Springer shifted. Prowl’s laughter--when he unbent enough to find something funny--was a slight chuckle. This was something else. “I need to make a copy of this.”

“What is it?” Springer asked warily.

“It,” Prowl said with glee, “is a document that the Princess Windblade signed, giving up her core citizenship to Caminus. Caminus will not defend her or come to her aid. It’s up to Starscream now, and when Starscream lies dead, she will be more vulnerable than she has ever been.”

Springer suspected that Prowl meant to kill her. 

“One of our allies was hoping for this,” Prowl told Springer. He pressed his finger against the spelled lock of his document chest and went hunting for the Carcer file. When he at first didn’t find it, he wasn’t surprised. Moving the document chest with all of its drawers could cause the files to shift and hide.

When he didn’t find it on his third, more intense search, he got worried. He went to his knees and pulled out every file of dispatches he had, and his anger rose when he realized it was gone. He swore, and Springer jumped. “What? What is it?”

“That,” Prowl was too angry to find an appropriate insult that would soothe most of his anger, “ _whore_ took it!”

“Took what?”

“The entire Carcer dispatch file. She took it! She knows!” Prowl rubbed his face, his mind scrambling to find out how to get out of this mess. “If she knows, then Starscream knows.”

“Carcer’s one of our mystery backers?” Springer swallowed. Elita-One had a reputation.

“They recognized us in secret,” Prowl said as he sat up and stared down at the document he had lifted from the courier. His glee was gone. “They’ve been funding us ever since.”

“Why?” Springer asked, reasonably.

Prowl looked up at him, his eyes scanning over Springer like Springer was only there in spirit. Springer knew that look, but it didn’t make him feel any better. “They want her. Who knows why--she’s impossible. There are rumors that Elita-One subdued her enemies with blood magic. I hope she makes a _slave_ of that princess.”

Springer held very still. Prowl could lose it at any moment. 

Prowl’s hands spasmed on the edge of the desk and then he relaxed. “I still have to make copies,” he grunted. He nodded toward the courier. “Get that out of here. I need privacy.”

Springer idled just outside the tent, long enough to hear Prowl scream with rage and the sound of a thudding desk before he went to find the unconscious courier someplace to sleep. _If you were looking for a sign_ , he told himself, _you’ve just had one._

\--

_March 8, 1037  
Iacon_

Starscream paused before he entered the greenhouse that he had had set aside for Windblade’s personal use. She was wearing some kind of waxed canvas robe and looked like a ghost through the muddled glass. Once he entered the greenhouse, her dimensions became clearer, although she was still wrapped up in a robe and headscarf. She was bent over a table, and the sounds of snipping grew louder as he approached her. When he went around the table, he saw she was pulling a floral arrangement together. He couldn’t identify any of the blooms, to his consternation. Around her in other pots were flowers he could--bluebells, violents, peonies, and orchids--but not what she was currently working with.

“Windblade.”

“There’s no need to tell me you’re here,” she said without looking up. She was gently placing a tall, leafy plant among the flowers. “I felt you come in.”

“The Autobots have arrived,” he told her.

She looked up. She hadn’t bothered to cover her face, and there was a slight sprinkling of yellow pollen across one cheek. He reached out and wiped her face clear of it. She held very still. “What does that mean, exactly?”

He was tempted to respond sarcastically, but this matter was too serious for the petty fight that would result from his kneejerk response. “They’re building their camp about half a mile away from the outer wall. They will be sending a messenger with an offer to discuss terms probably by tonight.”

“Terms have to be offered?” she inquired as she went back to work on the arrangement. It was very pretty--the white blooms were barely two inches above the squat grey-and-black swirled vase, with the taller greenery adding dimension to the bouquet. “They can’t just start bombarding us?”

“It has to do with the rituals of war,” he told her.  “Both sides have to be reasonable. When the talks break down, as they inevitably will, then the bombardment will begin but the talks have to happen first.”

“I take it you want me to attend,” she said as she finished placing one last bloom in place. From the table, she took up a length of black ribbon and tied it around the neck of the vase. 

“Looking your best,” he confirmed. “As fluttery and beautiful as possible. I would prefer that when they see us, that they see we are prosperous and stable.”

“Won’t that only want them to take us over more?” she inquired. 

Starscream shrugged. “Prowl’s talked them into it about how I’m ruining Iacon and Cybertronian culture. If they see that our people are prosperous and stable despite me leading it--.”

“Or because of,” she murmured.

He grinned. “Or because of me leading it, those who don’t hate me blindly might start to think. I’m willing to offer asylum to defecting Autobots, but there are a few hoops they’d have to jump through. That’s only fair--I won’t let in saboteurs to visit ruin upon my people.”

“My presence will inflame Prowl,” she warned. She thought, by now he will have discovered the theft of his Carcer documents. Should I tell Starscream what they have planned? Or will it bring him into a thorny conflict when his emphasis should be on protecting his city and his people?

Not yet, she decided. After. If there is an after.

“That’s part of the fun,” Starscream leaned on the edge of the table. “Who’s that for?”

She looked down at the arrangement that had taken her most of the morning. “Ravage.”

“Ravage doesn’t exactly seem like the flowers sort,” he observed. “Why...those, instead of something like peonies or violets?” He gestured to the delicate white flowers.

“Ginger lilies,” Windblade said. “They were bred to have only the lightest scent. The seeds came from the cargo Chromia brought. Ravage complained once about overly-scented flowers in my rooms when she came to play backgammon, so I thought I would pick some that she could appreciate for their beauty. Peonies _could_ work since most variations have no scent, except that their oil is dangerous to cats, so.” She shrugged.

Starscream leaned closer. “And the greenery?”

Windblade giggled. “I’m being mean.”

She was being mean..? He stared at her. “You’re _joking_.”

She shook her head, still wearing a mischievous smile. He started to grin himself. “Please give it to her when I’m there,” he begged. “I want to see how she responds.”

“If you’re there she’ll think something’s up.”

“I’ll live with it. _Please_.”

Windblade tapped her chin with a gloved finger, smearing yet more pollen on her skin. “I’ll think about it.”

Starscream leaned close and rubbed her chin with his pocket handkerchief. She stilled, her blue eyes still full of mirth from the joke she was going to play on his spymaster, and it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Gently--very gently--he pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and he felt her eyelashes brush his skin. 

His right hand went to her jaw, to tilt her head up, while his left hand went to her hip to pull her closer. She allowed it and even leaned into his hold, so he decided to take the opportunity kiss her further. Her hands rose to clasp his upper arms, and when she decided to suck on his lower lip, he was done playing nice.

He swept her up and onto the edge of table, nowhere near the arrangement she had worked so hard on, and her legs opened to cradle his waist. He pressed his advantage by nipping her bottom lip, her jaw, and all the way down to her pulse point. He marked it properly with teeth and tongue, and she was gasping at the treatment.

He hadn’t forgotten how responsive she was.

He was pulled away from his plans of playtime when she tapped his shoulders. He backed away from her reluctantly, only barely aware of how his magic was twining with hers. “If we keep going,” she said, breathless, “we’ll startle the plants into a season’s growth.”

He looked around the greenhouse and saw that every flowering plant was turned toward them. The plants that hadn’t flowered yet were reaching green tendrils toward them. “And that’s bad?” he replied, pleased that his voice wasn’t wavering like hers was. 

She eyed him, but she replied, “It won’t be stable growth. Most of these will be transplanted so we need them as strong as possible.”

He sighed unhappily. “ _Fine_.”

“I’ll bring you a flower to wear tomorrow,” she said as she slid off the table edge.  “I’ll make sure we match. Does white work for you?”

He looked down at her as she straightened her robe. “Why flowers?”

She rolled her eyes. “What better way to say that we’re surviving? Flowers have to _grow_ , Starscream.”

He conceded the point. “White should be fine. I’m wearing grey and burgundy.”

“I’ll wear black and burgundy.” She caught his slight surprise. “In every place I’ve been, the ruling couple has worn complementary color palettes,” she told him. “We’d better match so we look like a united front.”

“Very wise,” he approved. He lifted her hand and kissed the top of it. “Are you joining me for dinner?”

She shook her head. “I have to retrieve Victorion from the animal healer this afternoon. She’s received some pre-emptive treatments and her inoculations, and I have no doubt she will need soothing this evening.”

He looked around the greenhouse for signs of that cat’s presence and didn’t find any. “You didn’t bring her in here?”

“I never bring her in here,” Windblade’s cheeks were still flushed, but she was cleaning her clippings from the arrangement she had created. “There are too many dangerous plants for her.”

“Plants can be dangerous for cats?”

Windblade tossed the plant clippings into what was clearly a compost. “Lilies, cyclamen, chrysanthemums, aloe...there are many, and I grow a lot of them. I won’t risk it. This is not her playspace.”

“But you’re giving ginger lilies to Ravage,” he pointed out.

She shrugged. “They’re not dangerous to cats. I don’t know enough about the plants to understand why some are dangerous for animals and others aren’t. You’d have to talk it over with a plant witch who specializes in such things.”

“Do you make your own perfume?” he asked as he knelt down next to a pot of violets. “I know some plant witches do.”

“I know _how_ ,” Windblade said as she wiped the vase free of any lingering pollen. “That doesn’t mean I want to. It’s a long process just to make rosewater.”

“You sound so...disgruntled,” he said as he rose. She was heading toward the exit of the greenhouse--not the one he had used, but the one that included a changing closet. He trailed her.

“If you want it to keep its power and have it keep well, it takes a lengthy, weeks if not months-long process to do so. I found that my patience was tested by such a finicky process so I gave it up. That doesn’t mean I don’t how.” She disappeared into the changing closet to strip off the protective over-robe and hair covering. 

While he waited, he laughed once at her reply. “ _You_ were too impatient for it? I thought you had a mountain’s patience.”

She appeared again in her working clothes--a long black tunic over full red breeches that tucked into plain boots. A black-and-gold braided belt was her only ornamentation. “Surprise,” she said sourly.

He laughed at her again and offered her his arm. To his surprise--and a strange quivery feeling in his chest echoed his surprise--she took it. “Everyday I learn something new about you,” he said, deliberately playing up the condescension as they left the greenhouse. “Today I find out that you’re a person and not a paragon.”

To his eternal amusement, she stuck her tongue out at him and refused to deign that with a response.

\--

_March 9, 1037  
Iacon Plains_

The meeting time, arranged between Starscream’s emissaries and Prowl’s messengers, had been for the fourth hour of the morning and would include lunch because, as Starscream put it, “Food generally keeps uncivil people civil,” but for all of that, Windblade rose an hour before dawn to get ready.

Now that the Autobots were officially on their doorstep, most preparation work halted. Chromia was still working with the army, but Aileron had been returned to Windblade’s service from the clerks. Windblade had to get used to having someone dress her and run her morning routine again, and the combination of a disruption of her routine and the early hour that required her full attention made her grumpy.

She did her best not to show it; Aileron was content among the scribes and clerks, where she was just another writer, but dressing the princess and acting as the Controller of the Robes was too much for her. Windblade made a mental note to talk to Master Tracks to see if he could recommend someone to take over as her maid to allow Aileron to be her secretary only. 

Windblade had chosen a loose, gauzy scarlet undergown to go under a tighter black velvet over-robe. The undergown had multiple layers of differing shades of red, allowing for the silk to flow around her and accentuate her movements. The top layers of the gown were shades of burgundy that were only one or two hues off from each other, and gold embroidery winked on each layer. 

Windblade held her arms up as Aileron stepped up and onto a stool to pull the black velvet over-robe on. The sleeves were full, unlike the tighter stitching of the bodice. Windblade smoothed down the bottom layer of her sleeves to ensure that the top velvet wouldn’t roll up and throw off her silhouette or worse, be uncomfortable. Aileron stepped off the stool and put it away as she fastened the small gold buttons that crossed over her right side. The over-robe had slits that went all the way up to Windblade’s natural hips and had been tailored to fit her frame. It was a ‘crossover garment,’ where it was warm enough for the light silk of the undergown but the velvet over-robe would keep her warm from cooler breezes. 

At least Aileron was good with hair--Windblade’s dark hair was wound into loops and then wrapped with gold ribbon to create an alternating gold and black pattern. Windblade’s hair was pinned against her head but two ribbons were left hanging down her back, a slightly provocative hairstyle. Aileron took the two hair combs that Windblade had prepared the day before, combs threaded with dogwood blossoms and thin white ribbons. The combs were placed on opposite sides of the hair loops, for the pleasing look of Windblade’s face being framed by blossoms. 

The ruby drop on the gold chain, the one that Starscream had given her, went over her dress as she slipped on her shoes. She examined her reflection critically; it gave her a shock to see the princess that she normally pretended she wasn’t. She was fancy enough to meet Starscream’s request. The golden thread worked into her over-robe twinkled in the rising dawn light, a subtle pattern that was more impressive than if she had had thread-of-gold liberally embroidered all over her over-robe. 

“Lovely,” Starscream said as he entered through their connecting door. Aileron squeaked and bowed her way out of the room. Starscream ignored her in favor of gazing up and down Windblade’s figure. “Lovely,” he said again. “Do you have my flower?”

From the top of her dressing table, Windblade picked up the brooch that was just two dogwood blossoms held together with a gold pin. She looked at Starscream to find the best place to put it. He wore full burgundy trousers that were tucked into black boots, and over the trousers he wore a dark grey overcoat with a high collar. It was buttoned all the way down to the edge of the robe, and the buttons matched her gold ones. To complete the look, he wore a burgundy and gold shawl that draped over his left shoulder and down his back, tucked into place with a thick grey belt. She took the brooch and pinned it to his free right shoulder.  “Do you have something to wear over that while we ride?” she asked.

“Do _you_?”

“It’s rude to answer a question with a question,” she chided, “and yes.” She lifted the black wool coat that would cover all but her feet. 

Starscream ignored the gesture to look himself over. “I don’t normally go for white,” he said absently as he smoothed his black curls. It had grown to his chin, and he tucked some loose hair behind his ears. “But it’s striking against the dark fabric.”

She gestured to the flowers in her hair. “Precisely. If we had more time, I might have dyed them, but this will work for the moment.”

“We will do,” Starscream decided. “We had best get moving. We want to be settled by the time Prowl’s delegation shows up.” He smirked at Windblade. “It’s a good way to catch them off guard--to have everything set up and us drinking tea will make them think they’re late, and then they’ll fall over themselves to make sure that they’re not.”

“Good to know,” Windblade murmured.

Starscream kissed her cheek. “This will be an education,” he told her. “I’ll try to make it interesting.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m grateful.”

“Good.”

The rest of the morning passed in a bustle of activity. They rode out to mostly neutral ground, the space between the outer wall and the city wall. The air was perfectly still, but the tents Starscream had assembled still had weighted hems to keep the dust out. The tents were luxurious with several polished tables, comfortable chairs, and lit by candles in glass vases that had a silver back, to better throw off light. 

An hour before the Autobot delegation was due to arrive, the cart carrying the food from the palace kitchens arrived. The hot food was in spelled containers to keep it sealed and warmed until it was time, but Starscream fell onto a sealed crock and opened it to show it to her. “Want some?”

She looked down and nearly recoiled. “No, I’m not fond of olives.”

Starscream took three. “Why not?”

“I find them too bitter,” she replied. “In Eukaris, they have olives with _everything_ , and they eat olives with the pit still in and it’s very bitter.”

“More for me, then.” He picked up another handful of green olives and stuffed them into his mouth.

Windblade hid a giggle at his enthusiasm. He had seemed like other soldiers she knew, where food was fuel and the taste didn’t matter as long as it didn’t send them to the privy. Seeing how much he loved something--even if it was something she disliked--was charming.

Nervousness made her pace instead of sitting down on one of the chairs. Starscream had more experience with this, but she still suspected something would wrong. What if Prowl tried to take advantage of the moment, what if something went wrong with the food, what if that _Prime_ came with them…?

“Calm down,” Starscream said from his chair. “This is neutral territory. It has to be.”

Windblade gnawed on her bottom lip. “But what if--?”

“What ifs only help when you’re using them to prepare for contingencies,” Starscream informed her. “When it’s to air all of your anxieties, it’s less useful.” He patted the plush red chair next to him. “Sit down. You don’t want to be standing when they come in, anyway. It makes them think they’re important enough to stand up for.”

“Have you ever considered writing a guidebook?” she asked, a little irritated. “‘Lord Starscream’s Guide to Making Enemies Feel Small’?”

“No, it would be ‘A Diplomatic Guide to Negotiation,’” he replied, amused at her irritation. He kicked a chair leg until it pushed out. He pointed to it. “Sit down and tell me how you learned you didn’t like olives.”

He was distracting her, and although she disliked being _handled_ , she needed the distraction from her anxiety. “Eukaris,” she said. “There are a few foods that Eukarians think are Primus’ gift to us--olives feature prominently.”

“Which other ones?” he asked with interest. Olives had been an acquired taste for him--he had only grown to like them when Soundwave had provided them during a long slog of a campaign. 

“Eggplant, dried tomatoes, and,” she made a face, “ _stuffed grape leaves_.”

Starscream had never heard of such a thing. “What?!”

Windblade’s grimace deepened. “They take rice and blend it with ground meat, usually beef or lamb, and then wrap them up in grape leaves and steam them. They call it dolmeh. I got served with it at every banquet held in Chela, the capital, and by the third one, I knew it was because _they_ knew I hated them. I had to eat them to be polite. If they made me sick, like their goat cheese, I could be forgiven, but if it wasn’t a health need, I had no excuse.” She shook her head. “I liked eggplant well enough, though.”

“And olives?”

“They _love_ olives, in just about all of their incarnations. Black, green--one of the gardeners had even managed to cultivate a white variety. They pickle them, bake them into bread, use chopped olives and capers to stuff chicken…” Windblade shook her head again. “I liked other things in their cooking, like kubideh, a kind of chopped steak, and shish kabobs, ground beef and lamb that’s rolled together and then baked, and their saffron rice was just marvelous, but I had to seriously question other culinary choices.”

She was calming down as she remembered the hot, sun-soaked days in southern Eukaris, where the weather was drier and there were fewer trees. Airazor came from the southern region, Tigatron from the east, where it was rainier and cooler. Eastern Eukarian food, unlike the West and South, focused more on rice, couscous, and lentils instead of meat. It had been a huge culture shock for him when his wife started cooking him meat instead of the lentils his mother had made. 

Starscream chuckled. “When I found out Northerners put sour cream in just about everything they could think of, I nearly threw up. Why take a perfectly good beef stew and add sour cream to it...My people didn’t eat dairy. It didn’t keep in our heat, and it never was really cold enough to create cold-rooms like they did in Kaon. I grew to like cheese and some yogurt when I was on northern campaigns, but it’s never my preference.”

“In Chela, they get cold enough,” Windblade said, one ear cocked for the messenger as the sun moved overhead. “They don’t have the right kind of grazing for dairy cows, but they do use goat and sheep’s milk. They make a sharp cheese with goat milk and put it in a lot of dishes. It took a week before the palace cooks remembered not to put cheese in my food. Then,” she hesitated.

Starscream pounced. “Then what?”

“They make alcoholic beverages with it,” she said reluctantly. “A fermented yogurt drink they call dugh. It’s yogurt with mint, and although Chromia said their yogurt, dill, and cucumber dip--it’s called Mast-O Khiar,” she rolled the name off the tongue with ease, “she said it was good, but dugh is too sour to be anything _like_ good. I was never forced to try it because once it was served in front of me, they already knew I couldn’t have cream or yogurt, but they laughed at Chromia when she tried it.”

“I am under the impression that every culture has some food that they love but is intolerable to outsiders,” Starscream remarked, very much at ease as he swung his legs up onto the footstool. He could hear as well as her the sound of approaching horses. “Ours was a tofu soup with chili oil and coconut milk.”

Windblade noted the ‘ _was._ ’ “Eel,” she said. “There’s a kind of eel that has poisonous blood and has to be cooked very carefully. It’s a delicacy, when prepared by a cook that knows what they’re doing.”

They exchanged a look that communicated understanding over _very_ different cultures. 

The messenger entered the tent. “Lord Prowl of the Autobot forces, Captain Springer of the Wreckers, and,” the messenger cleared their throat, “Optimus Prime of Iacon and the Autobots.”

Starscream pressed his lips together as the trio entered the tent. Once they had stepped into the light, he understood suddenly why Windblade knew something was wrong with Prime as soon as she saw him. His stomach clenched in revulsion as he looked the Prime over--Prime had always been tall and broad, more thanks to his family line than personal activity, but he had always slumped forward like he was ashamed of how he towered over his officers. His clothing was always slightly ill-fitting, and his hands too delicate-looking for the axe he preferred to wield.

In contrast, _this_ Prime strode forward like he owned the ground he walked on. His clothing was still a little too small, but where it helped to contract Optimus to take up less space, it helped define the physical lines of this Prime. The hands were gloved in leather, the leather making his hands look bigger and stronger than Optimus’ hands ever had. 

Anyone who had known Optimus would know that this was not him. Prowl was an idiot to think no one would notice, and there would be more idiots in the Autobot army than Starscream had thought, if they believed him. 

Starscream and Windblade did not rise as the Autobots bowed slightly to Starscream. Springer winked at Windblade, Starscream was interested to see, and Windblade gave him a slight smile in response. A flirtation? No, he decided. A greeting.  “‘Lord,’ now?” he drawled when the fellow soldiers had straightened. “Praxus doesn’t exactly exist anymore.”

“You would know,” Prowl said evenly. 

Starscream grinned. “Yes,” he agreed. He gestured to the chairs around the table. “Take a seat.” He flicked his fingers at the staff around them. Tea was brought for, a more complex blend than Windblade’s preferred jasmine green. She sipped it carefully as she watched. This was Starscream’s element, even more than handing down rulings from the throne he had killed for. He knew exactly how to prick Prowl’s ego--something _she_ definitely enjoyed watching--and he knew how to set up the negotiations. “You took more time than I expected,” he remarked. “Got caught up? Or did you just enjoy the view?”

“Because grey soil and blue sky is such a vista worth lingering for,” Springer replied.

“There are two responses to such things,” Starscream mused as he passed his tea cup for Windblade to refill. She did so in the understanding that he asked her to do that for a reason, instead of the staff. It was probably a test to see if she figured out why without having to ask him later. “It can make you feel small, or it can be a challenge.” He turned toward her. “What do _you_ think, my lady princess?”

She smiled prettily as everyone turned to look at her. “I find it to be a challenge, my lord,” she said in her sweetest voice. Starscream pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. “I personally can’t wait until I have it green with growing grain and orchards.”

“You see,” he said to Springer as he turned back toward the captain. “A challenge.”

“You have an interesting idea of a ‘challenge,’ lady,” Prime told her. It was Windblade’s turn to hide irritation. Prime wasn’t someone for her to give respect for many reasons, but her title was something he should be using. “Given the land is cursed.”

“If it is,” she said, as tactful as she could manage, “it is the fault of your predecessors, not Starscream.”

That was news to all three Autobots--Springer raised his eyebrows, Prowl scowled, and Prime leaned forward. “Really,” Prime said. “Based on what evidence?”

She sipped her tea to make them wait. “I’ve read Nova Prime’s journals,” she said pleasantly after she had swallowed and put her cup back down. “As well as _A History of the Primes_. When you compare the maps from Guardian Prime’s time to the modern era, it’s very clear what happened.”

“And just what was that?” Prime growled.

Starscream hid a smile as he folded his hands on the edge of the table. Prime--and probably Prowl--had not expected a princess to also be a scholar. To be fair, he noted mentally, _he_ hadn’t either. He still hadn’t gotten over Windblade looking up old Cybertronian crop reports. But when she was able to weaponize her research, the results were...pleasing. 

“Primus wasn’t pleased with Nova Prime,” Windblade said innocently. “He made it clear in Nova’s dreams. Nova wasn’t pleased with the criticism, so he ignored it. Primus started by making the Iacon River disappear, and then by changing the weather patterns.” She shrugged, the movement making the gold in her black velvet over-dress glitter. “When later Primes followed Nova’s example--especially once the Senate removed the spiritual testing part of discovering the next Prime--this became the natural result.” Her mouth hardened. Starscream didn’t know that the removal of spiritual testing had bothered her so much, but then again, he amended, all Mistresses of Flame in Caminus were steeped in the Temple of Flame before they could even be considered for the role. “All things considered, Lord Starscream has done marvelously well with his charge.”

Starscream’s chest went tight at the compliment. 

“That sounds like Decepticon propaganda,” Prowl said.

Starscream tensed, but Windblade merely raised her brows. “Really? I was under the impression that _A History of the Primes_ was published in 896 AP.” She turned to Starscream. “When was the faction formed again?”

Oh, she was magnificent. “Officially? 1009 AP. Unofficially, it was 987 AP.” He looked at Prowl. “I’ve seen the book she’s citing. It is _well_ over 100 years old.”

Prowl’s lips tightened. “Dissidents who formed the foundation of the Decepticons have been in place for longer than 896 AP, and that book was ordered to be destroyed by Sentinel Prime.”

“Which isn’t suspicious in the least,” Starscream remarked. 

“It was written by an Iacon archivist,” Windblade said, ignoring Starscream except for how her foot nudged his ankle under the table. “An archivist who worked with the Senate secretaries. Not exactly a breeding ground for dissidence, I would say.” She smiled brightly at both Prime and Prowl, who were one word away from lunging at her. “Unless you’d say that working so closely with the Senate would have dissidence be the natural response?”

The tension was broken by Springer snorting. Prime and Prowl shot a glare at him, and Starscream covered his mouth with his hand to keep from laughing out loud. The same squeezing sensation that had been plaguing him while he was around Windblade intensified, but it didn’t hurt. It just made him want to kiss her hand. He held back on the impulse. _Later_.

He gestured for the staff to bring the food and lay it on the table. It felt like a good moment to break the tension with food. 

Prowl glowered over the steaming bowls of yellow chicken and rice soup, grilled chicken with roasted potatoes, and a sauce with leeks, ginger, and lemongrass. There were large bowls with hot rice, and even a bowl of rice noodles. It all starred typical winter fare, with a few co-stars from the greenhouses, but it was so cleverly done that it could be easily disguised. Windblade made a note to thank the cook personally after this meeting was done. 

“Prowl,” damned if she was going to use his title, “would you care for more tea?” she inquired. 

He looked down at his tea cup with some surprise. “Er--yes.” 

Windblade rose with the tea pot. She filled Starscream’s cup, then hers, then Springer’s, and then Prowl’s. As she filled each cup, Prowl grew paler with repressed temper. She knew Starscream’s game by then--it was Thunderblast’s, but aimed differently. It was to tell Prowl _exactly_ what her--and Starscream’s--opinion was of him, and Prowl understood it clearly.

When Windblade returned to her chair, Starscream flashed her a smirk full of approval, and she looked down to hide how her face flushed and her heart jumped in her chest. You still don’t trust him, she berated herself, stop being grateful for his approval!

“So,” Prime started after the staff had moved away from the table. “When are you planning to surrender to us?”

Springer closed his eyes at the Prime’s indiscretion. Starscream ignored the rudeness as he spooned the ginger sauce over his rice and chicken. “Never, actually,” he said cheerfully. “ _I_ thought you were coming to admit that northern Cybertron is the worst and you’d like to come back, please.”

Windblade tasted the chicken and rice soup and noted the strong flavors of ginger and tumeric. She liked both ginger and tumeric, and she ate it with more enthusiasm. Prime, she noted, had no food in front of him. Did the reanimated dead no longer eat? It was a question she had never wanted to ask.

“We all have dreams,” Prowl commented, “I had just never thought you capable of such wild ones.”

Starscream shrugged with a grin tucked into his cheek. “ _Is_ it wild to think that rational people might think of northern Cybertron is the worst? I enjoy sunlight. There isn’t much up north.”

Springer grinned. “Not all of us hate the cold.”

Starscream sniffed. “Then you have poor taste,” he informed Springer, who was not offended. “And no wonder Northerners are so pale. You reflect the snow.”

Windblade bit her lip to hide her giggles. She was surprised Starscream and Springer were so at ease. She knew Springer _hated_ Starscream, and in her world, people who hated each other didn’t joke together. It was the war, she decided. It changed their ability to joke. 

“What’s wild,” Prowl interrupted, clearly nettled. He must have thought Springer’s joking with Starscream was an act of betrayal. “What’s wild is that you would think we would be coming to join _you_.”

Starscream shrugged. “I was chosen by _my_ people.” He propped his chin in his hand, a movement he had copied from her. 

“Because there were so many candidates,” Prowl retorted.

“There were,” Starscream said. He wasn’t as angry as Windblade would have expected--he was touchy about his right to rule. “But killing a despot has a way of, hmm, what’s the phrase? Winning the crowd.”

“Like they could trust you,” Prime grunted. 

Starscream raised his brows. “They’ve managed so far. I’ve kept my promises.”

In a flash, Windblade spotted his gambit, and the Prime took the bait. “Keeping your oaths is new for you.”

“Only new for someone who wasn’t around to see the rest of the war,” Starscream dismissed.

Prowl had a white-knuckled grip on his fork, and Springer was looking between the Prime, Prowl, and Starscream. Windblade didn’t think he knew exactly who Prime was, but she knew he knew that this Prime wasn’t Optimus. Starscream was trying to sway Springer. That was what this whole gambit was about. 

Springer isn’t going to side with you, she wanted to tell Starscream, but maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe the point was to prove to Springer how corrupt his own leadership was. If that was the point, she hoped it would work. Springer hadn’t seemed all-in for the invasion.

“And what rest of the war is that?” Prime demanded. “Megatron removed all Autobots from Iacon. Wasn’t that the end of the war?”

Windblade helped herself to rice and sauce. Springer passed her the platter of chicken without her needing to ask. “I said, ‘the rest of,’ not ‘the end’,” Starscream said. “I don’t recall your presence at negotiations at, for example, Polyhex.”

Springer jerked in surprise. Windblade didn’t swivel her head to acknowledge it, although she was dying to know the story behind it. She guessed Optimus Prime had been present at the Polyhex negotiations, and that Starscream had made a promise he had kept. 

The Prime leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

In contrast to the clear tension showed by the Prime and Prowl, Starscream was at ease. “Do I need to inform you how the Decepticons and Autobots negotiated over Polyhex?” He glanced over at Prowl. “I thought you would have been informed.”

Windblade understood then why the meat being served was in such small portions. There were no knives on the table. The Prime held a fork in a grip that could easily be used to stab Starscream. Around the tent, she saw the staff stood in a way that meant they could be active at need. Their eyes were locked on the Prime. They would take him down before he could hurt Starscream.

“I was present,” Prime said with meaning. “There is no need to inform me.”

Starscream smiled at his most mocking. “Oh, really? My memory is needle-sharp, and I don’t recall you were there.”

“Liar,” Prime told him.

“Am I?” Starscream asked Prowl. “I think I’m _right_.”

“Most liars do,” Prowl said.

Starscream was losing his grip on the gambit. She had to help. “What happened there? The Autobot refugees didn’t talk much about what they had experienced.”

“Deserters, more like,” Prowl muttered.

Starscream turned to her. I’m trying to help, she thought at him. Let me. “Polyhex, like most cities, switched hands several times,” he told her in a didactic, condescending tone. She didn’t take offense to it, not when Prowl twitched. “Polyhex--its inhabitants--finally tired of the whole thing and declared they were neutral and that they would honor that neutrality by being a central place for where Decepticons and Autobots could work out accords.” He turned to Prime. “If you _were_ there, why don’t you tell her the rest of the story?”

The Prime’s lips were almost white with the effort of pressing them together. Starscream had maneuvered him into a trap--have the Prime protest that he _had_ been present, but then falter when details were called for. She also suspected that this was a small event in the greater history of the war, not important enough for it to be told to him after.

“You seem so pleased to take it, why should I take it away from you?” the Prime finally replied when he had regained his composure.

Starscream arched a brow. “I’m _offering_ it. That means you _can’t_ take it from me.” His dark eyes taunted the Prime. Try it and make a hash of it, he was telling the Prime, or push it off and be even more suspicious. 

Windblade suspected that had it actually been Optimus, Starscream would never have been so outwardly disrespectful, but given the history between Sentinel Prime and Starscream, he would take whatever shots he could. Why Sentinel? she wondered again. Because of that history? 

The Prime choose a third option--insulting Starscream. “Doubletalker,” he told Starscream. “No wonder you break as many oaths as you make.”

Windblade closed her eyes. There it was. 

Starscream was delighted with himself. “You have had many insults for me,” he said, “but not ‘oathbreaker.’  That was only used by a Prime you despised--or I thought you did.”

“I never despised him,” the Prime said.

Prowl was beginning to panic--Windblade could see it, and so did Springer. She saw wheels begin to turn in Springer’s mind. _Good_.

“Really?” Starscream tapped his chin. “When you came to Vos after Sentinel’s failed attempt at ‘subduing’ us, I seem to recall you making a very public apology about his misbehavior and treatment of us, and that in an effort to make peace, you would be a better Prime than he was. I can’t say that you lived up to _that_ promise.”

The air hummed with tension. Prowl hadn’t told Prime of _that_ moment, Windblade would bet her entire collection of priceless embroidery silks. Prime’s hands clenched and unclenched with temper and--Windblade guessed--humiliation. He seemed like the type to take criticism hard, no matter how it was phrased.

Prowl was the one to turn the conversation, unsurprisingly. “So I take it that you are _not_ going to surrender.”

Starscream didn’t even bother to look at him, maintaining his stare at the Prime. “No,” he said. “I would never surrender to a revenant, let alone _you_.”

“A revenant?” Windblade heard Springer mutter to himself. Prowl didn’t hear it, which she was grateful for. Springer’s anger at Prowl and the Prime was the lynchpin of Starscream’s strategy. Prowl taking out Springer before Springer could spread the gossip among the Autobot soldiers would not help Starscream, at least, not immediately. 

“Then I do not see the point of lingering here any longer,” Prowl snapped. 

Prime held up a hand. “We forgot a crucial thing,” he said. “We brought guest gifts.”

Windblade furrowed her brow. Guest gifts was not something practiced by Camiens. The Prime gestured to the Autobot messenger who had trailed them, and the messenger came forward with two wrapped packages. The smaller of them was placed in front of Starscream, and when the messenger turned to her, the messenger removed the protective wrapping and presented a bouquet of peonies and lilies. “It only seemed appropriate,” the Prime told Windblade as she took the bouquet, gingerly. 

Something about the bouquet wasn’t right. The silk that wrapped the stems was of poor quality, a rough weave that was already fraying. The lilies and peonies had been gilded with some kind of pearlescent powder, probably to catch the light and hide the slight wilting of the petals. Her instincts told her not to sniff the flowers. An assassination attempt was inappropriate at neutral negotiations, but there were all kind of spells that could be worked with flowers. She didn’t want any of them. 

“They’re lovely,” she said.

Starscream opened up the wrapped package to see a small silver box. When he opened it, she saw it was full of a kind of dark brown curled leaf. “Tobacco,” he said. It didn’t clarify matters for her. What was tobacco? “I thank you.” Like her, he didn’t bother to lift a leaf to sniff. 

The three Autobot leaders rose, and this time, Windblade and Starscream rose with them. Apparently hand-shaking was necessary for these negotiations to conclude, and they all brushed her hand with a kiss. She wished she had known. She needed to talk to Springer, away from everyone’s eyes. 

Then she had an idea. She beckoned to Starscream’s messenger, who had stood aside as the Autobots left. To cover the reason for her request, she gave them the bouquet. “These go to Hook,” she told the messenger quietly. “Tell him I suspect there’s something wrong with them.” She hesitated, and then plunged on, “Do you have an arrangement with your Autobot counterpart?”

The messenger looked shocked, and then they nodded. “Tell them that if Springer were to come to the gate two nights from now,” that was enough time for her to put a plan in place, surely? “He will be welcomed.”

The messenger repeated it in a hushed tone as Starscream talked to his staff behind them. “Thank you,” Windblade said. She found some coins for a tip. The messenger took them and bounded off.

“So?” Starscream inquired. “What did you think?”

She looked up at him. “I hope our shenanigans won’t cost us too dearly.”

“We’ve done what we can,” he said. He was unusually somber. He took her hand and kissed the top of it, and she tried to ignore how her stomach fluttered. “You did very well.”

“I picked up what crumbs you left for me,” she pointed out. “If I did well, it’s because you set me up to do so.”

He grinned. He still hadn’t released her hand. “You did well for recognizing what I was doing. I think we’re getting to know each other very well.”

She ducked her head to hide a shy smile. “Yes, I do believe we are.”

Starscream looked around the tent and sighed. “Well,” he said in a voice meant for her ears alone. “I think they will start the barrage at daybreak.”

Windblade swallowed and did her best to ignore her flutterings of fear. “Here we go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sooo_ many flowers are poisonous to cats. Finding flowers that _aren't_ poisonous to cats is a lot harder. In case you were wondering, the tall grasses Windblade put in the ginger lily bouquet is catnip.
> 
> Starscream's outfit is based on [this](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/da/9d/36/da9d36d6557ead915ef9f9376fa20ae5.jpg), and Windblade's outfit is based on [this](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a4/18/1a/a4181aecd3e73c31adcc632f9c11b8b2.jpg). I base Vos on a combination of Thailand and India (food and garb-wise), and Caminus on Imperial China and Japan, but I love ao dai and for what Windblade does, hakama and ao dai make the most sense for her.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: blood, gore, and blood-related illness. Prowl makes a play here.
> 
> Thank you for all your comments! This chapter explains a few things, and I can't wait to hear your thoughts.

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: FINDING A LINE**

* * *

_March 11, 1037_

_Iacon Plains_

Prowl did not begin the barrage on the day after the negotiations. Instead, he planned for it two days later, and not with something that Starscream and his people would expect. Besides, it took longer than expected to assemble the siege machines.

So Springer understood, anyway. He was staying away from the command tent, too preoccupied with the _very_ odd conversation he had been party to at the negotiations. He had already known that the Prime wasn’t Optimus, but it was clear Starscream and the princess knew which Prime he was, and so did Prowl. Whoever it was, it was a Prime that wouldn’t be popular with the soldiers. 

That made Springer wonder. Despite the mythology surrounding the Primes, by the time Optimus became Prime, most people paid lip service to the title and little more. Optimus had been the first Prime in a long time to win peoples’ respect, but it wasn’t because of the title. There were a handful of Primes that would have caused active antipathy among the soldiers--was it Nova?

No, he decided. Nova would never had submitted to the orders of Prowl, and he definitely would not have bothered to hide his identity. It would have hurt his pride. 

Maybe the princess would tell him at this meeting she had arranged. He almost called it an assignation, but he had seen how Starscream looked at her and she at him during the negotiations. Their marriage may have been arranged, but it would be ridiculous to presume there wasn’t affection there. Prowl had been a fool to think he could lever the princess against Starscream. 

So. It wasn’t an assignation, and it wasn’t going to be a continuation of the battle negotiations, since he doubted Starscream would let the princess decide battle strategy. _He_ wouldn’t let the princess decide battle strategy, not when it was clear she had never been on a battlefield in her life. 

So what was it going to be about? 

It was a moonless night, with only starlight to light the way. Springer didn’t dare take a torch--he had no intention of Prowl or Prime knowing about this particular adventure, and a torch would define his place as he traveled to the walls. He would have to rely on the road and his horse.

His horse was not excited about the trip. “I know,” he said as he stroked his mare’s nose. She whuffled at him and nudged toward his pockets. “You’ve found me out,” he said as he pulled out a chunk of carrot. She ate it neatly from his hand. “I know it’s dark out, but bear with me.”

His mare sighed, and he looked her in the eye. “Keep that up and I’ll change your name from Beauty to Grumpy,” he warned her. Her ears went back. “I’m only teasing,” he assured her as he stroked her nose again. “ _Now_ can we go?”

Beauty didn’t fight him as he took her reins and led her from the hitching post for the Wreckers’ horses. His team knew he had a solo mission that night, but not where. They assumed it came from Prowl and wouldn’t tell or ask questions. If someone came looking for Springer, they would send them in multiple, differing directions. Springer mentally blessed his team. He had been worried when he had taken over from Impactor. People tended to take their cues from their leader, and if their leader behaved badly without repercussions, so would they. Impactor’s removal had been a repercussion of major proportions, and Springer had adopted a stern and fair approach to leading his team. He wouldn’t be their best friend, but he wouldn’t punish them out of malice or vindictiveness. They understood that, and respected him for it. 

As soon as he exited the circle of light that marked the Autobot camp, he mounted his mare and nudged her into a trot. The starlight was almost enough, but it also deceptive. Springer stuck to the road and hoped that travel kept it flat and free of treacherous depressions that would break horse’s leg or worse.

His hope was sound; he arrived to the outer wall’s gate without mishap. There was a team waiting for him, a group of people Springer didn’t recognize. He dismounted and stood at ease, Beauty’s reins in one hand. She didn’t like being pressed by people, like any well-trained warhorse, but she sensed his ease and didn’t act out. If he didn’t feel threatened, neither was she.

The leader of the group removed their helm and pulled down the hood that kept their head warm in the chill of the early March night. “Captain Barricade of the City Watch,” the leader said, offering a hand.

Springer took it. “Captain Springer of the Wreckers. I was told you were expecting me.”

“We are,” Captain Barricade said. “The princess has made arrangements, but...there are conditions.” 

Springer had expected that. “Disarmament and leaving my mount here?”

“I can promise she’ll be taken care of,” Captain Barricade promised. The captain was stoic, Springer could see it. Stoics were generally good choices for roles that dealt with chaos. “We’ve prepared a hot mash for her.”

“You’ll spoil her.” Springer looked at the youngest of the group, who was sidling up to Beauty. “If you touch her without me introducing you, she’ll try to take your arm off. She’s done it before.”

The youth flinched. Springer sighed and reached for the youth’s hand before yanking it under Beauty’s nose. Beauty took a step back, but when her large brown eyes met Springer’s--and she saw how he was tapping one foot--she relented and sniffed the youth’s hand. When Springer passed over her reins, Beauty went with the youth where a fire was set in a pit. He hoped she would behave, if only to be near the heat that kept the damp cold at bay.

Springer turned back to Captain Barricade. “I apologize. I trained her to be temperamental.”

“Most warhorses are,” Captain Barricade agreed. “Your weapons, please, Captain.”

Springer removed his sword, matching dagger, and hidden knives from his boots, the knife hidden in the small of his back, and the ones hidden in his arm guards. He kept the one that was part of his belt buckle. It was small enough that weapons’ detection spells missed it, but he wouldn’t go into enemy territory without _something_.

Captain Barricade shifted on his feet. “There is something else, Captain.”

Springer glimpsed a large piece of black silk hanging from the captain’s belt. “A hood,” he said with resignation. 

Captain Barricade nodded. “It was a condition. I apologize.”

“Am I going to be used for mockery by groping around blindly?”

Captain Barricade’s lips turned up slightly. “No, there’s a carriage. Please follow me.”

In the carriage, Springer submitted to the hood. The carriage was very comfortable, with sprung seats and strong wheel axles. He could tell when they entered the city--the wheels rang differently on cobblestones than on dirt--but he was lost from then on. The carriage took so many turns that he lost count, probably a measure against that exact thing, but he didn’t know Iacon that well anyway. He hadn’t been in the city much before the war, and never after the war had begun. 

The carriage finally came to a stop after the cobblestones had changed to smoother stones. Captain Barricade removed it before Springer exited the carriage. The princess was not in the small courtyard, but he couldn’t think of why he had expected it. Instead, the captain led him through the courtyard and into a hallway lit by flickering torches. They passed three doors and entered a fourth. That was where the princess waited, with a small table set between two stuffed chairs and led by multiple candles and warmed by a large fire in the hearth. Captain Barricade bowed to the princess, who rose as Springer entered.

“I’ll send a runner when we’ve finished,” the princess told Captain Barricade quietly. “Thank you.”

Once again, her politeness took Springer by surprise. Senators had never been so respectful of the people who served them. There had been several problems about that. 

Captain Barricade inclined his head to Springer before vanishing. The princess spread her hand toward the other chair. “Please, join me,” the princess told Springer. “Do you play backgammon?”

Springer hesitated before he took off his coat. It was going to be too warm in the room with it, and there was a rack waiting for it. Once he draped his coat over the rack, he came closer to the princess.

She wasn’t dressed like the distant princess of two days prior. He had been awed by her then, and there was no doubt that had been her intention. Tonight, she was dressed in a simple black silk gown with a scarlet shawl. Still a princess, but a working one. Her hair was still pinned back, though.

“I prefer chess,” he admitted once he sat down. The chair threatened to eat him until he sat closer to the edge of the chair. The princess sat down and draped herself across her chair, the firelight deepening the onyx of her dress. 

The princess made a face. “Lord Ravage has been teaching me, but I’m a slow student.”

“I do know how to play backgammon,” he assured her. “But I prefer the strategy of chess.”

“Perhaps, after this is all said and done, you can join Lord Ravage in teaching me.” The princess passed him a set of dice, and he took it as he frowned at her. She acted like the siege was a momentary inconvenience instead of something that could change everything, he thought grumpily. It wasn’t sensible, and she had seemed practical before. 

Well. ‘Seemed.’

“I’m not certain if that will be possible,” he finally said, as diplomatically he could.

She shrugged. “We’ll see. Roll to see who goes first?”

“You can go first,” he told her. 

“I should argue,” she said, “but I won’t.”

Through their first game, she spoke only of frivolous things. What was his horse’s name? Had he trained her from a filly? Was she always intended to be a warhorse? Had she been assigned to him or did she come from family stables? It was disquieting--he doubted that she had asked him to meet with her just to discuss horse breeding. 

They were starting on their second game--she had won the first one--when she asked, “Were you aware that there was poison on the flowers the Prime gave me?”

He jerked, sending his backgammon tokens across the board. She helped him collect them, and he said, “ _What?_ ”

“I sensed something was wrong about the flowers,” she said. “I gave them to Master Hook. After he ran his tests, he found that a poison had been worked into the gilding. It was supposed to go straight to the lungs until the victim dies because they’ve coughed up their lung tissue.”

Springer blanched. Fighting was better, he felt. It was _clean_. Only SpecOps worked on such things. Prime may have given her the flowers, but the poison had come from Prowl. To try to kill her at neutral negotiations...Springer fiddled with a token. “I apologize.”

“Why? It’s clear you didn’t know.” She threw down her dice and moved her token across the board. “I just wanted you to know.”

Springer thought of something else. “If it was in the gilding, why aren’t you poisoned now?”

“Master Hook said it was fixed to the petals,” the princess told him. “It required the victim to immediately thrust their face into the bouquet to sniff the blossoms.” She scowled. “They shouldn’t have chosen peonies for it. They _have_ no scent.”

Springer suspected she still wouldn’t have fallen for it. “And the tobacco?”

“Another kind of poison,” the princess said grimly. “One that mimics a nervous disorder. Starscream’s lucky that I suspected something was off--and that he doesn’t smoke.” She looked at him, her eyes disconcerting in the candlelight. “I take it that Prowl didn’t tell you because you would object.”

“Primus bless it, I _would_.”

“I thought you were honorable,” she said, satisfied. “It’s good to know I was right.”

When it was Springer’s turn, he rolled the dice and considered his options. Finally, he asked, “Who is Prime?”

She raised a brow as he knocked one of her tokens into the prison. “You don’t have any ideas?”

“The only one I could think of was Nova, but he wouldn’t let Prowl give him orders. Zeta and Nexus…” Springer shook his head. “I couldn’t think of a Prime that would let someone like Prowl control them.”

The princess ran her fingers over the edge of the board on her side. “It’s Sentinel.”

Springer gaped. When he found his voice again, he said, “Even Prowl wouldn’t be _that_ stupid. Sentinel never thought of his soldiers as people, just as figures on a battle-board. To have someone like _him_ masquerading as Optimus Prime…!”

The princess let him mull over it as they finished their second game. When he won the second game, she gestured to a servant. The servant came forward with a rolling tray. Springer found himself looking at a steaming teapot, two cups, a plate of sandwiches, a plate of cookies, and a tureen of soup. “I wasn’t certain if you’d eaten,” the princess said softly. “May I serve you?”

Once again, she had startled him. “You’ve angered Prowl,” he told her after he had agreed. She gave him a bowl of soup before she placed the two plates between them. He poured them tea as she served herself soup. “He was already angry because you saw through his gambit with Impactor. He had hoped that you would need rescuing. Then you really pissed him off when you set a sleep spell that worked on everyone for _six days_. Finally, you stole some of his Intelligence. I think he means to kill you.”

“That would not be in his best interest,” Princess Windblade said icily. Then her brows furrowed. “Six days? I only meant it for two.”

“That will definitely send him into a rage,” Springer told her. “For it to be extended four more days than you meant...he’s not used to dealing with someone who’s as powerful as you are.” 

“Then why is he continuing with this farce?” she asked as she dipped her spoon into the soup. It was a thick soup with slices of pork and onion, and there was potato in it too. He gulped it down. Army rations wouldn’t stand against a cook with a full kitchen.

“You know,” he said as he wiped his mouth with one of the cotton napkins. “I’m not really sure. I know that my team isn’t happy about it, and neither are the other soldiers.” Maybe it was her sharing of information, maybe it was the food, but he found himself telling her everything. About Prowl’s temper, his unusually reckless behavior, even the way the Prime talked to the soldiers--and that Prime being Sentinel made sense, given that behavior.

He ate in between sentences. She didn’t interrupt his telling and only listened. Springer was aware that he was betraying Prowl, but his patience had been pushed past his breaking point. Not only had Prowl raised the dead--something that was explicitly against Primus’ strictures, the one law Springer felt should never be broken--but he chose one of the most abusive Primes in living memory to reanimate the body of a beloved Prime. Then he dragged the survivors of a hideously long and violent war back into it.

Prowl deserved whatever the princess and Starscream had cooked up. Springer was done cleaning up after Prowl’s messes.

Finally, the whole sorry tale was out, and the plates and tureen were clean. He looked at Princess Windblade and took a breath. “Are you trying to convert me to serve Starscream? I won’t do that.”

“No,” the princess replied. “Never that.” She fiddled with her spoon and then said, “How many would leave with you, if you did leave?”

He blinked. “A lot,” he said after his mind scrambled to answer the question. “Too many aren’t happy. If they’re here, it’s because they hate Starscream, not because they like Prowl.” But this might be enough to divorce them of that driving hatred, Springer thought. If they knew just how many crimes Prowl had committed to get them here. 

The princess sat back in her chair. “The Cybertronian Empire is dead,” she said. “It will not be brought back, not in this generation or the next. Too many were victims of it. If you wish to lead your people away from here, Starscream will not pursue.”

Springer narrowed his eyes. “Can _you_ promise that?”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Think about it logically,” she said. “You’ve seen the land. We’re working on fixing it, but it will still take time to reclaim everything that has been lost. It will be two generations before the population is stable enough to explore reclaiming the lost territory of the empire. Starscream doesn’t have the population to pursue your people, and moreover, he doesn’t care enough to. He left them alone. It was Prowl who killed Prime, not Starscream.”

She kept dropping bombshells on him. “What?!”

“Optimus Prime died the winter after Starscream took power,” she pointed out. “Starscream never makes a political play like that unless he’s able to finish the endgame. The first year he ruled here, it was too unstable from fixing the mistakes of Megatron’s rule for him to do anything like it. Then when Prowl was the only one who saw Prime…” she took a breath and then said, “Jazz confirmed it.”

If Jazz confirmed it, it was true. Hands-down.

Springer hung his head. “Shit,” he told his knees. “That’s--shit.”

She nodded. “Precisely.”

With that piece of information, he could bring down Prowl, and Prime too. He could end this before it started. No wonder she had spoken of his presence as if the invasion meant nothing. He could stop this entire farce in its tracks.

He vowed to do so. “May I go?” he asked. “I have a lot to tell my people.”

She rose with him. “Be safe,” she urged him. She reached out to touch his shoulder. “Don’t do anything too foolish.”

He flashed her a grin. “With all due respect, my lady princess, ‘cautious’ is my middle name.”

“I hope so,” she said. As he left the room after the runner, she said, “I truly hope so.”

\--

“Do you think it will work?”

Windblade rose and turned to look at Starscream. Of course he would have listened in, but he had done it from a connecting room, not the undignified hiding behind curtains. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I suspect that Springer is a contingency that Prowl has planned for. If Springer can surprise Prowl, I think there’s a chance but…” she hesitated and then said, “I think Prowl is too reckless at this point to listen to anyone if it would mean stopping all of this. He wants to kill you too badly.”

“You too,” Starscream said as he crossed the room to her. He crossed his arms over his chest and shifted from foot to foot. “What did Springer mean, about you stealing Intelligence?”

She wished he hadn’t heard that. She drew in breath to answer, but Starscream held up a hand. “Don’t lie. It’s obvious when you do it.”

She scowled at him. “It’s complicated.”

“It always is.” He turned to one of the servants, a friend of Aileron’s--Swift, that was right--and said, “Clean this up.”

Windblade cleared her throat. He glared at her before adding, “Please.”

Swift’s eyes widened and she bowed. Starscream grasped Windblade’s arm and towed her from the room. When they were alone in the courtyard, she yanked her arm from his grip. “I _am_ capable of walking,” she snapped at him.

“Prove it.” He gestured for her to walk next to him, up until they reached his chambers. Windblade suspected they had been spelled for secrecy from eavesdropping spells and made a note to ask Chromia to ensure the same for hers. Camien defense spells were a little different from Cybertronian ones. “I will have the truth, now.”

Windblade looked around the room in an effort to marshal her thoughts together. What _could_ she say? She hadn’t decided yet on what she thought about Carcer supporting Prowl silently. She had her own suspicions about what Elita wanted from that alliance, but to explain it would involve explaining her personal history with the Liege General and that was something she did _not_ want to do, especially not to Starscream.

“They have spies in Caminus,” she said finally. “I was trying to see who it was, to alert my mother.”

“I will see it.” Starscream’s eyes were as cold as the air around him. He held out his hand. “Now.”

She hesitated.

Starscream stamped his foot, sending a wave of--it was hard to describe, but instead of it being cold, it was more like the absence of warmth. Windblade stood in front of the fire and did not feel it. “Don’t make me order you. You _are_ one of my citizens now, and your refusal to share could have placed all of us in danger!”

She bristled. “I have not done any such thing!”

“ _I_ will be the judge of that,” he sneered. “Unless you _are_ sympathizing with the Autobots and providing cover to them while they commit their crimes against us! How many were with Springer? Did you hand-pick the guards that greeted him? And your promise not to pursue…!”

“Stop!” Windblade shouted. The fire behind her roared up into the chimney, sending angry orange light across the wooden floor. “I would never do so dishonorable a thing!”

“I will see that Intelligence,” Starscream retorted. “If I have to call Captain Barricade to arrest you and search for it myself, I will do it. I will not have my people threatened by anyone.”

The time for discretion had passed. Unhappily, she went into her room and to the desk she kept locked magically. One scan of her magic and the main drawer popped open. She left her correspondence in it--it wasn’t relevant to what was going on--but the leather envelope she had stolen from Prowl came out. She turned and gave it to Starscream, who had followed her into her room, and then she sat down heavily on the side of her bed. 

On the opposite side of the bed, Victorion woke up and stretched before padding to Windblade’s side. She curled up against Windblade’s side and tucked her head into Windblade’s thigh before starting to purr. Windblade stroked her head and did not look at Starscream as he scanned through the dispatches.

“This seems like a tremendously intricate operation to get you severed from Caminus,” he said at last. She wasn’t surprised he had put the pieces together. Once she had all the information, she had seen it too. “I had _thought_ Obsidian was setting me up. I see that he was trying to set _you_ up.”

She nodded. She didn’t trust her voice. Victorion leaned into her hand and purred louder. 

“Why does Elita want you so badly?” The aggression drained from him as he sat down on the bed so that he could lean on the poster of the bedframe. Victorion braced her back feet against his thigh and used it to push herself harder against Windblade. “Why would she do this for you?”

“Please don’t ask me,” Windblade whispered. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Starscream tapped the crisp edges of the dispatches against the wooden frame of the bed. “I allowed you your silence when it did not impact Cybertron. Now it is. I will have the truth.” He paused and then said, “Please.”

She couldn’t look at him. It was too hard. “I went to Carcer as my first diplomatic trip,” she said quietly. Victorion reached out and patted Windblade’s arm with a paw the size of a plate. Windblade stroked it. “I was grateful for the chance to leave home for awhile--Hot Shot was getting worse, and I’d earned my marks, proving I was capable of performing as an adult witch. I had been in the Temple for so long that I mostly forgot I was a princess. When I got to Carcer, I was reminded and it felt...good. I had all of these ideas about how to change peoples’ lives for the better, and Carcer _needed_ that. They’ve needed that kind of thinking for generations. They get so bound up in internal and external strife that they forgot their origins as philosophers and poets.”

Starscream waited, but she had to explain the context before she could answer for the rest. “I was respected and valued in a way I hadn’t been in Caminus,” she said. “In Carcer, you earn your rank. No one’s born to it. They saw my marks and my magic and my ability and decided I earned my rank. And Elita…” she trailed off. How could she explain the allure of the Liege General? “Elita wanted me. I could see it. I had had flirtations in the Temple, but they stopped there. No one wanted the mess that came from bedding the Princess, even if we both wanted it. So her wanting me, and the way she courted me…” She rubbed her eyes. “I was young and stupid. I mistook lust for love.”

That wasn’t exactly true, at least on her part. Everything she had found out in the past month made all of Elita’s actions suspect. 

“She saved my life and my honor during an assassination attempt. She tended to me personally after it, and she did so many things she didn’t have to,” Windblade licked her lips. She couldn’t stand to look at Starscream’s face--would he pity her, or worse, would he hate her? “She refined my backgammon game, she showed me around Vigilem, the capital city. She allowed me the resources to redesign the city’s water system so it could prevent illnesses like rice water fever and nervous fever. I felt so cherished.” She wiped away a tear. Solus bless her, she hadn’t wanted to cry over something silly like a broken heart.

“Because of the fall-out of the assassination attempt, I spent the winter in Carcer,” she said. “And I was seeing her every day. Soon, we--we consummated the flirtation.” She hid her face in her hands. Those had been some of her best memories, now tainted by Elita’s manipulations. Elita had been so gentle, and brazen in a way that made Windblade comfortable with her own body. It had been such a wonderful experience, but now… “She told me we could get married. I wanted that. I wanted her like that. I had earned my own rank in Carcer--they called me Protector of the City--and I wanted that freedom. I didn’t want to go back to where Hot Shot was allowed to be, well, himself. She wrote to Mother, but she told me that the betrothal would go through so we could start planning the wedding.”

“And it didn’t go through,” Starscream said.

She nodded. “Leaving was...I didn’t think I would ever recover. My brother had had his spies, and they reported back to him how boldly I had acted. That was when he started the rumors about my behavior. Mother sent me to Eukaris not long after to give the rumors a chance to die, and Afterburner was sent as my chaperone. We couldn’t have me doing that again, after all.” Windblade’s voice curdled with bitterness. “Then it just became habit for the two of us to travel together. When Mother told me she would never support a marriage with Carcer, I thought that would be the end of it.”

“But now it’s not. Elita sees an opportunity here.” 

Windblade nodded. “She doesn’t give a damn about Cybertron,” she admitted. “I was in her court when Megatron won. She was asked if she would recognize his government. She basically said that he and his people could go hang.”

Starscream snorted. “Fair enough. We hadn’t endeared ourselves to the world then.”

“Carcer needs help,” Windblade scratched Victorion under the chin. “Their infrastructure is bad, they have too many disease outbreaks and not enough public health structures to deal with it, and the constant infighting has resulted in an ever-changing chain of command. Elita’s made it more stable, but they really need the skills of someone like me. I’m guessing that’s why she’s never really given up on the marriage.”

“And of course, if you’re married to her, she can control you instead of you building a powerbase and tossing her out of power.”

Windblade looked up at him, startled. “What?”

He shrugged. “It’s what I’m doing, but it’s less of a manipulation since we’ve more or less agreed which aspects you’ll be in charge of.”

She looked down again. She didn’t want to compare him and Elita. She was afraid of what similarities she would find. 

“Windblade,” he said. 

“What?”

“Look at me.”

She shook her head. “It’s not part of my history that I’m proud of,” she mumbled. “I should have known better, I should have safeguarded myself, and instead I was manipulated and--.” Curse it, she was crying again. Spots appeared on her lap, and she wiped at her eyes. Victorion heaved until her head and shoulders were on Windblade’s lap, and she looked up at Windblade before blinking her tawny eyes slowly.

Windblade tried to smile and failed. 

“We all have things we’re not proud of,” Starscream told her quietly. “I allied with _Megatron_. It was the best option at the time but resulted in...Does Carcer specialize in death magic?”

Windblade cleared her throat. “They don’t have the history of death witches like Cybertron does, at least, I don’t think they do. What spells they do have require things of the body--blood, hair, nails--and it depends on the item for how effective the spell is. If they were going to kill you with a spell, they would need blood. I don’t think Prowl has any of that. It would have been his first action against you.”

“True.” Starscream petted Victorion’s lower back. “Don’t keep things like this from me again. I don’t care about your history, but if my people die for it so you can keep a secret, that’s unacceptable.” He caught and held her eyes. She was grateful there wasn’t pity there. “What would Elita do to Prowl if she found out what he’s been up to with you?”

Windblade shook her head. “I couldn’t tell you. She’s a soldier like he is--she might accept some of his choices as necessary in that moment.”

“Does Carcer have a legacy of rape?”

Windblade smothered a gasp at how bluntly he put it. “I have suspicions,” she said at last, “but no evidence to prove or disprove them.”

Starscream sighed. “There go my hopes of turning him over to her to face her particular kind of justice.”

Windblade rolled her eyes at him. “Like you would ever willingly give up the chance to watch him die.”

“You know me too well,” he said grumpily. In a more serious tone, he added, “The siege machines are built. I expect they’ll be used, starting at dawn. It will be unnerving. I suggest you get some sleep while you can. You won’t be getting very much in the next few weeks.”

She swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”

As he walked past her into his own room, he squeezed her shoulder before he moved inside. Once he was gone, Windblade gave in to her feelings and sobbed until light broke over the horizon.

\--

_March 12, 1037_  
Iacon Plains  
Sometime between 2AM and 4AM 

Springer nudged Beauty to a stop once he reached the Wreckers’ camp. Most of them had gone to sleep, but Perceptor was still awake and waiting. He followed Springer silently into the stable and leaned against one of the poles that held it up as Springer groomed Beauty and refilled her water trough.

“Well?”

Springer told him everything. Perceptor had gone through a trauma early on in the war, a trauma that marked him so deeply he had rewired his emotional responses. Unlike the rest of the Wreckers, who could at their best be termed ‘berserkers’ in battle, Perceptor’s calm allowed him to act as their sniper no matter the chaos happening below him.

It was insurance, too--if Prowl planned to take him out before he could spread what he had learned, Perceptor would pass it along. The Wreckers would be angry enough at the removal of their leader that the Intelligence Springer had gathered would be more than adequate ammunition.

“I have noticed,” Perceptor began when Springer finished, “that Prowl has a marking he did not have before.” He touched the area behind his right ear. “I have not seen it in such detail to know what it is, but I suspect it is a spell of some kind. It glitters.” He touched the glass lens over his right eye absently. 

Springer believed him. “Do you think he’s being controlled?”

Perceptor considered the question as he offered a sugar lump to Beauty, who took it daintily. “No,” he said slowly, “I believe his actions are his own.”

But there was still a lot that a spell could do to him, Springer thought. “Are the siege machines ready?”

Perceptor nodded, and again there was a slight hint of consternation to his features. Springer stopped. Perceptor didn’t show much. What he showed mattered. “What’s wrong?” Springer inquired as he picked up Beauty’s tack from the ground to drape it over the wall of her stall. 

“Prowl has not let anyone but the machine operators view the ammunition for it. We’ve collected wood and stone and brought them with us, but they have not yet been brought to the loading area.”

Springer gnawed on his bottom lip as he thought that through. There was a lot that could explain that decision, most of them even reasonable, but Springer trusted Perceptor. If Perceptor was concerned, then Springer should be too. “Help me get the team together,” he said, “they’ll be unhappy at waking up so early but I can’t see what else to do. We need to brief them and then choose what to do next.”

Perceptor nodded, but the plan was not to be. When Springer exited the stable, Prowl was already standing there with the Prime and surrounded by Prowl’s chosen soldiers. Springer saw Skids and Getaway among them, but the flickering torchlight hid the rest of the faces. “Springer of Polyhex,” Prowl said clearly, “I remove you from your position as Captain of the Wreckers and arrest you for treason and consorting with the enemy.”

Springer gaped at him. “ _What?_ ”

Prowl ignored that. “You will be taken and held, awaiting trial as an enemy collaborator.” He nodded to Skids. “Take his weapons.”

Perceptor hung back in the shadows, and the Wreckers were waking up and were angry. Springer shook his head at them. The way Prowl was doing this--publicly--would make sure that if his Wreckers responded to this in the moment, they would also be accused of treason and undermine everything Springer had just learned. Better to let Perceptor talk to them and explain what was going on. _Then_ they could turn the camp.

“I’m sorry about this,” Skids muttered, for Springer’s ears only. “Please don’t fight me.”

Springer didn’t. He looked at Prowl, who looked--unhinged, but that might have been the torchlight. He needed to double-check Perceptor’s information. If Prowl was under a spell, they might just have the chance to salvage this whole sorry situation and themselves before Prowl got them into something they could never recover from.

\--

_March 12, 1037_

Starscream nodded to his people as he passed by the mobile hospital that Hook had been working on for the past few days. He had been forced to listen to the protocols Hook and Windblade had argued out between them over unreasonably long meetings, but they had a protocol they were happy with and _he_ was happy they were no longer assailing his ears with complaints about what ‘well-rested’ meant. 

Up on the wall, nearly 400 archers awaited him. The wind was stronger at the top of the wall, and it snatched his steaming breath away from him. His second-in-command, Acid Storm, was prowling along the archers to critique their stances and ensure they had enough room to shoot without fouling up their peers.

Starscream left him to it. He had his own prep work to do. 

When the wall had been built--or compiled, more accurately--there had been plenty of spaces between the chunks of rock that Starscream and his people had drawn from the city streets to make the wall. Some of the spaces were too large for anyone to feel comfortable, so Starscream relied on the creativity of some of the nastier survivors who set up booby traps within the spaces. Then the whole thing was coated with mortar and defense spells. It was practically a work of art.

Starscream wanted to reinforce the defense and shield spells. He was more concerned about other ways that Prowl could use to breach their defenses instead of the unsubtle chunks of rock and wood thrown by the siege machines. He could see in the field in front of them the siege towers, and as soon as Prowl thought that he had a chance, he would order the towers to be moved to the wall. That was one method he could use, but Starscream was more concerned about liquid fire. 

No defense or shield spells were perfect, and liquid fire was a jelly that, when lit, clung to everything until there was nothing left to burn. Stone was generally immune to it--the liquid fire held onto it and burned unceasingly but it wouldn’t destroy stone--but it could destroy mortar. If the liquid fire triggered the booby traps without soldiers behind it, it could literally blow a hole in the wall that could be taken advantage of.

He wished that Windblade could reinforce the spells against flame, but apparently since liquid fire wasn’t ‘real fire’, her magic was useless.

If it wasn’t real fire, what was it?

In the field below, the Autobots were mobilizing. The sun was beginning to rise, and it promised to be a bright, sunny day. He hated that it would still be cold--the combination of hot sun and hot temperatures would make soldiers in armor tire much faster--but that was something Thundercracker couldn’t change. 

The six great siege engines lined up. Even from his angle, the view of them was distorted by all of the defense spells on them. Those engines were Prowl’s best asset; he wasn’t about to risk losing them to an archer with a flaming arrow. 

Joke’s on you, Starscream thought. _He_ had planned for that kind of contingency. 

Acid Storm’s metal leg thumped loudly against the smooth stone of the walkway. “They’re as ready as they’re gonna be,” he told Starscream. Though they were of an age, Acid Storm had always seemed older. Maybe it was how he was always grumpy, or maybe it was because he had already gone grey, but Starscream wasn’t against using Acid Storm’s perpetual frown to get their soldiers in line. 

“And now we wait,” Starscream murmured as he turned to face the Autobots again. He couldn’t spot Prowl’s armor--a visually striking black-and-white enamelled armor that was the finest Praxus smiths could create before its fall--but he doubted Prowl would put himself at the head of the attacking army. He was too used to calling the shots from behind.

Acid Storm unfurled his spyglass and peered through it.  “They’re loading the machines,” he reported. “Though with something smaller than your average stone or wood load.”

Starscream frowned. “Archers, get ready!”

The wall rang with the sound of archers nocking their bows and drawing. “Hold,” Acid Storm called. “ _Do not fire_.”

The first of the siege machines loosed with a ringing sound, and Acid Storm shouted, “Fire!”

The air sang with released arrows. Starscream wasn’t surprised to see that all arrows aimed at the machines bounced off, but they tended to bounce in the direction of the armored operators, all of whom were less than thrilled about the arrows. One of the archers--Starscream made a note to find who it was and promote them--shot the load released from the siege machine and pushed it downwards. 

That _was_ odd. It shouldn’t have been so light than an arrow could change its course.

The rest of the siege machines released, and his archers did their best to shoot the--stones?--out of the sky. Two landed, one near the leftmost edges, and one just 200 yards from Starscream. They discharged a white smoke that left everyone near it coughing. The archers that faced the worst of it ended up sitting down and rubbing their eyes. Was it some kind of chemical?

There wasn’t any time to check. Already the siege machines were reloading and preparing to fire, and Starscream had to do something about those machines. From the quiver at his feet, he selected an arrow that had been made specially for this. The arrowhead was heavier than his usual, thanks to the tip of hematite that had been set into the sharpest point of the arrow, but it could cut through defense spells.

Starscream drew his recurved bow and pulled the string back to his ear, anchoring his hold by his jawline, and looked for the best aiming point. He was closest to the second siege machine, and he blocked out all noise and distraction as he analyzed the machine in less than a second for its vulnerabilities. 

_There!_ The spot that locked the chain of the weight to the frame of the machine. Take it out, and the machine would collapse. Starscream drew in a breath and did not breathe out until he let go of the arrow. 

The arrow disappeared into the air, but he knew when it landed. The spells carved into the wood caused a burst of flame where it landed, and the siege machine immediately fell to pieces. The fire, spurred by the spells he had put into the wood, caught onto the wood of the machine. Starscream knew that in order for siege machines to work properly, they had to remain oiled. The oil, in this case, helped _him_ , not the Autobots. 

Three more smoking bundles landed. He was showered by ceramic fragments and coughed in the explosion of dust. He felt two cuts open on his face, but there was no time for that now. Acid Storm had jumped away from a bundle and his metal foot had slipped, which left him hanging precariously over the wall on the internal side. Starscream dropped his bow to grab Acid Storm’s arm and haul him to safety.

Acid Storm clutched his arm for a moment as he caught his breath. “Thanks,” he grunted. “Damn leg.”

Acid Storm’s eyes were reddening, and Starscream saw with concern that his face was starting to swell. “That smoke…”

“Think there was an irritant in it,” Acid Storm let go of Starscream to rub his eyes. “That kinda thing would right up Prowl’s alley.”

“Rinse it out?” Starscream suggested, although the coughs that were starting to erupt around them didn’t give him much hope. 

“ _Anything’s_ worth a try.” Starscream passed him his hip flask and ordered the archers down the line to do the same. 

The bombardment continued all day, with more of those smoking bundles. Starscream had to wonder what they were supposed to accomplish. His archers were still shooting accurately--muscle memory was a wonderful thing--so then what was the point? The coughing? Starscream wasn’t feeling it yet, but he had a relative immunity to most poisons. If they didn’t kill him flat out, they wouldn’t touch him at all. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt his archers.

Once the sun set, battle would cease for the day. When that happened, he could have his archers checked by the healers below to make sure that whatever was in those bundles wasn’t lethal. The only thing to do was wait.

As night drew closer and the cold grew worse, he noticed how his archers coughed. Poisoned inhalants tended to go directly for the lungs, and the cold would only aggravate it. Worry was a solid knot in his stomach, but he was used to its weight. It wasn’t the first time the Autobots _or_ the Decepticons had tried something like this. It could be undone with a skilled healer and chemist, both of which Starscream had. 

Finally, darkness took over the horizon and the barrage stopped. Starscream and Acid Storm--whose face had swelled so badly he could barely see--carried orders down the wall for all archers to be checked out by the healers before they were cleared to return home for the night. 

Starscream waited until the wall was cleared before he assisted Acid Storm off the wall. Acid Storm’s breathing was harsher than Starscream was comfortable with. Either his lungs were inflamed or the swelling of his nose and mouth were closing off his airways. Starscream did not like those choices. Acid Storm had survived numerous battles and experimentation by Shockwave. He didn’t deserve to die in battle when he had earned his retirement. 

He was unhappy to see that Windblade was on shift. She had a thin crystal light and had one of his archers by the jaw, checking the archer’s throat with the light. She glanced at him but didn’t stop her examination. 

There were three other nurses, all running the same checks. Archers who yet to be checked out were seated anywhere there was space, and one of them got up and off a bed so that Acid Storm could take it. As soon as Acid Storm was off his feet, he huffed and swung his feet onto the bed so that he could collapse onto it. Then his breathing got worse, so Starscream helped him sit upright and piled pillows behind him so that he could breathe.

Acid Storm grabbed his arm and tried to say something. Instead, blood sprayed out of his mouth and hit Starscream’s face. “Windblade!” he roared.

Windblade ran over to him. She pushed him out of the way as she laid a hand on Acid Storm’s throat. He saw her crimson magic sink into his skin, and when her brows knotted, he knew something was very wrong.

“Princess!” one of the nurses cried. She turned away from Acid Storm to see that another archer was spitting up blood.

In a moment, Starscream saw Windblade’s fear before it was shoved aside by steely determination. “No one goes home,” she snapped at him. “Everyone stays, even you. This whole hospital is under quarantine.”

“What is this?” he demanded.

She was already pulling on gloves and a mask. “I don’t know,” she admitted, and then she turned to her nurses. Starscream heard her snap out orders to them, but he doubted anyone else heard. A panic would only set in and make things worse.

Within moments, Windblade and the three nurses were bustling. Folding cots were unfurled until every single archer was on a bed, and one of the nurses pulled out a chest of potions and tinctures. Starscream stayed next to Acid Storm and out of the way, but Acid Storm’s breathing was getting harsher and harsher until it resembled a rattle. 

“Windblade,” he called again. 

She came back with a basin. “I’m sorry,” she told Acid Storm. “We’ll have something for your breathing in a minute.”

Acid Storm only nodded and started to throw up into the basin. Windblade pressed a cloth in Starscream’s hands, and he looked at her oddly. Was _he_ supposed to nurse Acid Storm? She rolled her eyes and pointed to her face, and that’s when he remembered Acid Storm had spat blood on him inadvertently. He started to scrub his face with the cloth, wincing slightly when it re-opened the cuts on his face that he had sustained earlier.

“You’re likely already infected,” Windblade told him softly as she took a cloth stinking with garlic and gestured for him to start to rub the cuts with it. 

“No,” he told her shortly as he did his best not to wince from what he was doing. 

“No?” she inquired. 

“I don’t get sick,” he told her. He glanced at the other nurses and saw that they were wearing masks, but Windblade wasn’t. “I’m guessing you don’t, either.”

She pressed her lips together. “It’s why I was trained in quarantine procedures,” she confessed after a moment. “If you don’t get sick, we could use more nurses. Could you go to the city and ask for them?”

The hospital had too many patients for four nurses to tend. He nodded. 

“After decontamination,” she said. “We do have the supplies for that.”

He made a face. “If I don’t get sick, why do _I_ have to be decontaminated?”

“Because you could carry it with you,” she said. “You’re not this stupid.”

He grunted. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She glanced around the tent. “Please,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Nervous fever' was a legitimate name for typhoid fever back in Ye Olden Days, because one of the symptoms is an ongoing anxiety. 
> 
> I can't wait to see how your perception of things have changed!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Your notes on the last chapter gave me _life,_ no joke.
> 
> A few things about this chapter. First, the illness referenced here is based on [Lassa Fever](http://www.who.int/emergencies/diseases/lassa-fever/en/) and a Twitter conversation I had with James Roberts once. 
> 
> Plague diaries are a real thing! I got the reference from [this Yale course](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL3AE7B3B6917DE8E6&feature=plcp%22) about the history of epidemics in the Western World post-1600. I was listening to it for my own edification, not for this fic, but I am a public health and history nerd so enjoy.
> 
> All of this is to say: hemorrhagic fevers are one of the worst ways to die. There _are_ worse, but not many, and it's not like it was a competition I wanted someone to win, anyway. Warnings for gore, death, and blood. Lots of blood. Mentioned torture. 
> 
> I always wanted an arc in either TAAO, Windblade, or exRID where there was some kind of public health crisis and Windblade was like _my time has come,_ because I primarily see Windblade and cityspeaking in general as a public health role. It's the impetus for a lot of my decisions with her character in this fic, so here, have the arc we never got in canon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: ALONE IN THE DARK

* * *

_March 13, 1037_

_ Iacon _

Windblade closed the door to the garderobe behind her and locked it. She put the lid down on top of the privy and sank onto it, shaking slightly. They had lost three archers in the night--not Acid Storm, Starscream seemed to care for him--but more archers were showing symptoms. 

The disease was unlike anything she had seen before, but that didn’t mean it was new. While in Eukaris, she had read some of their plague diaries, and one of them had listed a disease that killed by the victim bleeding everywhere until they died. The diary had been from three hundred years prior, and Eukarian tradition did not allow for autopsies. 

In her experience, diseases didn’t die. They went dormant, like Caminus’ many volcanoes, and erupted when there was a vulnerability. Still, the question remained how the Autobots had gotten their hands on it and how they had learned to weaponize it. Most illnesses took days to incubate before erupting, but this one just needed a few hours. 

And if it killed by bleeding out its victims, why did it pass through the air?

She put her head in her hands and allowed a few tears to seep from her eyes at the enormity of her task. She did not have the resources out here to study it--all she could do was try to keep these archers alive, but that was a task she was failing. Starscream had yet to return and the bombardment had begun again at dawn, and today, it sounded like the Autobots were using more traditional ammunition. 

She was afraid, and she couldn’t show it to anyone. The nurses Hook had assigned for this shift--First Gear, and she couldn’t remember the other two at this moment--were fine, but they had been trained for battle wounds only. An unknown disease that killed so quickly and with such mess was frightening. They took strength from her. She had to keep her own fear locked away.

She pulled her hands away from her face to watch them shake. She hadn’t slept in at least sixteen hours. She couldn’t remember the last meal she had. These few moments, snatched in the garderobe, were the first moments she had to really think.

Solus, how she hated quarantines. She talked them up with Hook and Starscream--yes, she had run quarantined wards before and run other disease wards too, but it had never been something she liked. But here she was, and Solus’ teaching was clear: if she was in a situation where she could help, she had the moral obligation to do so.

Windblade stood up and prepared for another shift of work.

\--

Starscream directed his horse to a stop. He dismounted in one fluid movement, and he led his horse over to the makeshift stable while the carts behind him grew nearer. He noted that three archers were digging a pit--that was unpleasant. 

He entered the hospital to the smells of piss, shit, vomit, and blood. He held in a retch, just barely, and saw that almost every bed was taken by an archer that was bleeding. The nurses were running off their feet with basins, but despite their best efforts, the ground was damp with crimson. No bed was clean, and the spotless uniforms of the nurses were no more.

He looked around and found Windblade at Acid Storm’s side. She was helping him drink some kind of steaming tincture, but his second-in-command’s skin had taken on a bluish cast. Starscream made his way toward them, very grateful for the fact he didn’t get sick as he passed archers who coughed so hard they wheezed. 

“Try to rest, now,” Windblade was saying to Acid Storm as he closed his eyes and lay back on the pillows. The blue undertone to his skin remained.

Windblade turned and nearly slipped on a puddle of blood. Starscream grabbed her to hold her upright. “Are you all right?”

She looked at him for a moment like she was trying to place him, then her eyes lit in recognition. “Did you bring more nurses?”

“I did you one better,” he said. “Well, two. You can show me your gratitude later.” He turned them both toward the entrance, where ten nurses were slowly entering the tent, led by Hook’s own protegee, Red Alert. “I brought you not only more nurses, but a healer, with supplies.”

“Thank you,” Windblade told him, and then she set off toward Red Alert. The two bowed to each other, and then Windblade said, “I never caught your name.”

Starscream was distracted from the ensuring conversation by Acid Storm plucking at his coat. Starscream knelt to listen. “Keep tellin’ ‘em that Sh’ck’wave won’t let ‘em tend me,” Acid Storm whispered, “but she don’t listen. He gonna kill her for sure.”

Starscream swallowed. He placed a hand on Acid Storm’s forehead and was unsurprised by its heat. “I’ll stop Shockwave,” he promised the delirious Acid Storm. “Don’t worry about it.”

“He let m’brother die,” Acid Storm moaned. Starscream’s stomach dropped when he saw the blood dripping from Acid Storm’s gums. “He’ll kill her an’ you for sure. He wants to study how we die.”

Acid Storm’s shoulders heaved, and Starscream thought he was crying, but the liquid coming from his eyes was the wrong color. “Windblade,” he said quickly in an attempt to hide his panic. He was fairly sure he failed. He had seen some truly terrible disease--rot, red pox, even rice water fever and the shits could be awful to watch--but this was something else. 

“Solus guide us,” Windblade murmured as she came on Acid Storm’s other side. “He’s about to seize.”

“How do you know?” Starscream demanded as Acid Storm’s body tensed and then started to shake. Windblade didn’t have time to answer as she threw herself over Acid Storm’s body to keep him in the bed.

Red Alert shouldered Starscream out of the way to lay a hand on Acid Storm’s throat. Green magic filtered from her hand into Acid Storm’s skin, and for that moment, with the magic to illuminate it, Starscream saw the web of death that was slowly closing around his fellow veteran. It was concentrated in Acid Storm’s chest, around the heart and lungs, but the yellow threads were in his other organs too, and the healthy tissue was losing ground to the encroaching death. The yellow threads had surrounded the spine and were already running tendrils up to Acid Storm’s brain. At Red Alert’s touch, the yellow tendrils receded from the spine but she couldn’t remove them from the organs.

Acid Storm stopping seizing and lay still. Only the movement of his chest showed he was still alive.

Windblade stood upright. “Thank you,” she rasped to Red Alert. “When they start to bleed from the eyes, seizures and death quickly follow.”

Red Alert, who normally played the stoic to Hook’s histrionic, took a step away from Acid Storm, her lush mouth quivering slightly. “Can you feel how it’s going after the body?” she asked Windblade.

Windblade nodded. Her eyes were red with exhaustion, and her whole body was trembling. “I’ve never seen something like that so quickly.”

“It’s like it was designed to target the body in an efficient manner as possible,” Red Alert rubbed her eyes with her sleeve. “You have enough fatalities to know the process of death?”

“Let me show you the notes I’ve been taking,” Windblade told Red Alert, and the two went off to the one space in the hospital tent that was almost clean. Starscream looked back down at Acid Storm and wiped away a line of bloody drool. Could he reduce the death in Acid Storm’s chest? He placed one hand on Acid Storm’s torso and reached for the yellow threads of sickness.

To his mounting anger, the threads resisted him. He was Death, they _would_ obey!

He didn’t know how long he stood there, trying to roist the threads from Acid Storm’s kidneys, liver, and lungs, but it was long enough for him to be panting and sweat-soaked. A smaller hand laid on top of his and he felt the brush of Windblade’s magic as she joined to his effort. Her magic was weaker than his, but a glow of carnelian assured him that she was capable of working with him. 

When their combined magics touched the yellow threads, the threads briefly pulled away before regaining their strength. Starscream felt Windblade’s confusion and then determination as she increased the heat of their magic, clearly intending to burn out the threads. 

If anything, the threads hardened and clung to Acid Storm’s liver and kidneys. Windblade’s heat died away, and then she started to pull out. Starscream grabbed her magic and wouldn’t let go--she couldn’t give up.

Something brushed the back of his knees, and he jerked in surprise. It let Windblade go and his magic pulled back into his skin as he sat down abruptly in the waiting chair. Red Alert was there with a cup of water. It was warm, but he gulped it down. “What was that?” he demanded when he could speak.

“It resists magic, whatever it is,” Red Alert looked at Acid Storm and shook her head. “I suspect it’s been concocted by a healer, for it to resist mine and your magics.”

The pieces came together in a flash, and Starscream snarled, “ _Pharma._ ”

Red Alert started. “The disgraced healer?”

“Yes,” Starscream spat. “Prowl wanted an advantage and Pharma gave it to him. If I ever get my hands on him--!”

“Which one?” Windblade inquired. Color was leeching from her skin, turning her lips a too-pale pink and her skin grey. Shadows gathered under her eyes, and she was shaking. She needed two hands to lift her cup of water.

“Either!”

“That’s all well and good,” Red Alert’s eyes were on Windblade, “but it doesn’t solve the problem of here and now. My lady has been good enough to collect samples from the dead, but she needs to eat and then rest.”

Windblade nodded and didn’t bother to argue. 

Starscream was happy to argue. “But why?” he challenged Red Alert as Windblade made her unsteady way to the small room that had beds for the healers on duty. “She doesn't have healing magic like you do. Her magic might be able to get those close to death to hold on long enough for you to find a cure.”

Red Alert glared at him. “She will do no one any good if she collapses with exhaustion,” Red Alert said tartly, if quietly. “You can’t have missed how weak her magic is.”

Starscream frowned. Yes, he had noticed that, but what did it have to do with anything?

“She’s been tying her magic to the dying all night long. Every patient that died--and according to her records, there’s been six so far--she faced backlash from the release of her magic when the sickness overpowered her control. Then she’s been on her feet all night and most of the morning. She hasn’t had anything to eat, and neither have her nurses. She needs rest.” Red Alert looked him over. “And so do you, if your emotional control is so thin. Did you sleep at all last night?”

Starscream shook his head. “I had to get back to the city, and then make sure I talked to the right people and arranged for supplies and then I needed to get back, because it’s such a large job and--.”

“And there’s just one thing after another,” Red Alert rolled her eyes. “We have shifts for a reason. In an outbreak, tired healers kill without meaning to. There are enough beds in the resting room. Go take one. I’ll wake you up when I get her up for the shift change. She’ll need your help, anyway.”

“Why?” Starscream asked, disliking Red Alert’s tone. 

Red Alert sighed. “We don’t know how virulent this is, and you two are apparently immune to sickness thanks to your magic. You two will have to perform autopsies before the bodies can be burned. If we understand just how this disease kills, we might be able to subvert it.”

He swallowed. Right. He nodded and went to find a bed. Inside the resting room, Windblade was already fast asleep. The beds were too narrow for more than one, otherwise he would have liked to sleep with her. Just to know she was there and alive, for the moment.

\--

_ March 13, 1037  
Iacon Plains _

Springer tried to make himself comfortable. It was hard when his wrists were chained to a pole with only three feet of chain, but he did his best. You’ve been more uncomfortable than this. Just tell yourself that you’re comfortable and you will be.

The tent flap opened, and Springer looked up. The person coming in was framed by the outdoor sunlight, and Springer blinked before he realized it was Skids. Better Skids than Getaway--Getaway had a taste for the nastier stuff, whereas Skids would only indulge in it if he determined there was no other option.

As Skids put a tray of food in front of him, Springer was reminded of Skids’ preference for drugs. Springer resettled his seat and called up his mental defenses, a requirement for being a Wrecker. “What do you want to know?” Springer asked genially.

Skids’ eyebrows flicked up and then down. “Why did you do it?”

“Is this a personal visit?” Springer picked up the tray and eyed it. It was soldier stew with a crust of bread. Skids definitely could have drugged it and Springer would never be able to tell by the taste. “Or an errand?”

Skids sat back on his haunches and shrugged. “Let’s just say Prowl isn’t too concerned about prisoner resources right now.”

Springer dipped the bread into the stew. The chain clinked quietly as he did so, and he made a face before stuffing the bread into his mouth. Chewing bought him some time to think. 

“That’s a complicated question,” he answered finally.

Skids was completely at ease in his odd position, proof he had been trained by Jazz. “Only if it’s a complicated answer.”

“Who do you fight for?” Springer asked.

Skids tilted his head right to consider it. “Prime, of course.”

“Which Prime?”

“Does it matter?”

“If it bothers you that Prowl raised the dead, yes it does.”

Skids shrugged. “Everyone does bad shit in wartime.”

“If Prowl killed Prime in the first place?”

Skids frowned at him. “That’s a serious allegation. You got proof?”

“It’s Prowl,” Springer reminded him.

Skids grunted. “Still.”

“What’s Prowl firing at the city?” Springer asked suddenly. He hadn’t heard anything at all the previous day, which was odd. Siege machines weren’t quiet.

Skids’ eyes dropped to the right. “Stone,” he said.

“Yesterday,” Springer said impatiently.

“Does it matter?” Skids repeated, but there was an opening. Springer could sense it.

Springer dipped his spoon into his stew and hoped there was real meat in it. “It does to you.”

“You sure about that?”

“You’re in here, aren’t you? Wasting resources on a prisoner.” Springer bent one of his knees and rested his arm on it. “Something’s happened to make you wonder.”

Skids looked down again. “He’s got some kinda disease from a friend. He gave it to the city yesterday. Today, no archers on the walls.”

Springer’s throat closed up. Armies swapped diseases like kids swapped snot, but deliberately introducing a disease--wait. “A friend?”

“He didn't exactly tell us,” Skids pointed out. “He’s not chatty most days, especially when Intelligence’s on the line.”

There was only one Autobot Springer could think of that would brew up a disease for Prowl’s use like this. “Pharma?”

Again, Skids’ eyes trailed to the ground. “Could be.”

“Is this what you signed up for?” Springer demanded as he cleaned his tray. He hadn’t been given much, but if Skids was sneaking it, there wasn’t exactly much of a choice. “To follow someone who uses abominations like Pharma?” And raises the dead?

Skids’ eyes locked onto Springer’s. “Starscream’s worse,” Skids said flatly. “You were in Praxus. How could you betray us to him?”

“I didn’t,” Springer said tiredly. “Starscream’s, like, the pinnacle of the shit heap, but Prowl’s getting there. He’s becoming what he hates just to bring Starscream down. Say he does bring Starscream down. Then what does he do?”

Skids glared. “Let’s wipe Starscream off the earth first before we start making plans.”

“That’s why you’re in SpecOps,” Springer sighed. “Make a mess and get the hell out of there. You don’t have to live with the fallout you created.”

“Better SpecOps than the Wreckers,” Skids shot back. “Way you operate, there isn’t any fallout left.”

Springer shrugged. “Least I care about what gets left behind.”

Skids huffed. “Next time, it won’t be me. It’ll be Getaway, and he’s got lots of shiny toys he’s just dying to try out.”

“Let him try,” Springer said with a bravado he didn’t fully feel. “If Impactor couldn’t break me, what makes you think your boytoy could?”

Skids shot him a dark look before he rolled to his feet and left the tent. This time, the tent flap didn’t make a sound.

\--

_ March 14, 1037   
Iacon _

It was so early that Windblade wasn’t entirely sure it was a new day yet, but the cold served a purpose as she shifted into a protective waxed robe with thick gloves. She wore a mask and a glass visor, which had the unpleasant side-effect of turning the torches into streaks at the sides of her vision. Still, it had its purpose.

Beside her, Starscream was struggling to tie the inner ties of the robe. They would have to tie the outer ties for each other once they were ready, and the gloves didn’t exactly help. Windblade wished passionately for disposable, sanitary operation clothing, but no one had come up with something yet.

Red Alert and her personal nurse had set up this tent for them. 3 bodies lay on tables; it would create a baseline for them to create some working hypotheses. Starscream cleared his throat as he finally tied the inner ties. “I’ve never done this before.”

“I know,” Windblade told him. Her voice was muffled through the cotton mask. She had performed autopsies, typically as the second pair of hands for the surgeon. She had never taken the lead before. It would test all of her surgical and anatomical knowledge. “If you feel the need to throw up, try to get outside the tent first.”

Starscream looked in her eyes for humor and didn’t find any. “This is going to be bad.”

Windblade’s shoulders slumped. “The worst.” She turned around so that Starscream could close the back of her robe, and once he was done she did the same for him. She looked inside herself for strength and made herself find it so that she could step inside that room with those three bodies, all too pale from death and blood loss. 

Red Alert had set out all the tools she would need. She selected a size 10 inch knife and went to the first body. The face was covered, at her request. She didn’t want the body to watch what she was doing to it. Starscream came up to the opposite side with a slate at the ready. He watched as she made a careful incision--across both collarbones and down the torso of the corpse.

Windblade took a deep breath, grateful for the blend of lavender, rosemary, and cypress in her mask, and then she worked to peel the skin back. The sound of it made her cringe, but when she glanced up at Starscream, he nodded encouragement back to her. She steeled herself and went to work on spreading the ribcage. She switched out her knife for a bone-saw, and the sound of it cutting bone made her nauseous but she kept her bile down.

When she looked down into the chest cavity, she almost gave it up regardless. The chest cavity, usually a well-organized placement of squishy pink organs, was an absolute mess. She could identify the heart by its location, not because of its shape. The lungs were in tatters, and she was lost to identify anything else. 

Starscream looked down and then he quickly took a step back. She heard him breathe heavily as he fought the same battle she did, but he finally had control of himself. “Have you ever seen anything like this?” he whispered.

She shook her head, still too overcome to speak. She still had a job to do, and she called up a witchlight so that she could take a better look. Every single organ in the chest cavity had ruptured lines, and even though livor mortis had set in--more than she expected, given the state of how the patient had died--she could see how the disease killed. It attacked the tissue of the organs and shredded them until the tissue was thin enough to be bled out. 

“It’s so efficient but also,” she mused, “not.”

Starscream had his chalk at the ready. “What do you mean?”

She looked up at him. “Diseases survive in a population because of how they’re passed from person to person. Some live in the animal population until they cross over, others are people-to-people only. For a disease to have such a small incubation period and then to kill this quickly and violently, it severely decreases the amount of time the disease itself lives in its host. For example, you ordered quarantine as soon as you suspected something was off. The only one who went back to the city was you, and you were thoroughly decontaminated before you did so. The people who came with you won’t leave until we’re sure it’s over. So it will have a high lethality rate, if this is anything to go by, but it won’t extend past this group.”

“I wonder if Prowl understood just what he was given,” Starscream murmured. “If he hoped it would wipe out the city and allow him and his army to just walk in, it should have had a longer incubation period.”

“It’s a dreadful blessing,” Windblade agreed, her eyes bleak. 

Windblade performed the other two autopsies after that, only speaking her observations. Starscream didn’t speak at all. The other two had died of the same cause, but after Windblade sewed the corpses back together and prepared them for cremation, Starscream caught up with her in the robing room. “What if they survive the disease?” he asked quietly. “What is the risk for secondary infection?”

“Huge,” she admitted. “The disease--we should have a name for it--will have utterly wrecked the body. Even something small could kill.”

“I vote for ‘Prowl’s fever,’” he told her as they tossed all of their clothes into the prepared bin. Everything would be boiled and treated to be sure that infection wouldn’t cling to it. “Or ‘Bleeding Prowl.’ Something that makes it very clear whose fault it is.”

“I’ve never wanted to kill someone so much in my life,” she said. “Who would unleash something like this for--for a temporary victory?”

“Chin up,” he told her. “At least it looks like it can’t pass between the ill and the healthy without that weird smoke.”

“That we know of,” she warned. “Magic acts as its own resistance. Once the nurses and Red Alert’s magic reserves are low, then we’ll know.”

I wish she hadn’t said that, Starscream thought as they pulled on clean robes and gloves. I would have been content to be surprised.

\--

_ March 14-15, 1037  
Iacon _

Windblade worked it out with Red Alert so that they would have three hours, three hours off between them. Red Alert was only ‘full’ healer they had--Thundercracker had managed to rally the city to find defenders without going near the quarantine and Hook’s staff was needed to deal with arrow wounds, stone shards, and the like--and while Windblade was not a healer by magic, she and Red Alert were the most senior in the ward. The nurses, all ‘babies’, needed constant supervision.

“They would have needed it regardless,” Red Alert said to Windblade as they shared a quick breakfast of eggs and rice. It was the rare quiet moment, when their patients were mostly asleep, and they would take full advantage of it. “The healers who are trained in this kind of work aren’t really around anymore. War, you know? And then when it was over, they decided they were tired of running wards and wanted to be country healers.” She shrugged and dipped her spoon into her rice. “I can’t exactly blame them.”

“Everyone who gets educated at the Temple goes through training,” Windblade said as she poked her eggs. “We have enough cycles of illness that we need all the hands we can get, so even if it’s just basic nursing, everyone learns it. If you’re discovered to have a talent for it, or if you keep your head in a crisis, you get further training. I think I prefer that, to be honest. There are things you can do without needing healing magic, and then that frees up the actual healers to do what only they can do.”

“Maybe, after this is over, you talk to Lord Starscream about setting up a program,” Red Alert said as she finished the last of her breakfast. She nodded to where Starscream was assisting one of the nurses in giving an archer a sponge-bath. Half of the archers were still sick and getting worse, but the other half were starting to show improvement. Their fevers were down and their bleeding had slowed. 

50% lethality was better than 100%. Windblade hoped.

“I have a few ideas like that,” Windblade confided. “Not just nurse training, but crisis training too. And I’d like to explore the infrastructure to know where Metroplex needs help or assistance.”

Red Alert nodded. “Health isn’t just about this.” A wave of her hand gestured to the ward. “Everything contributes.”

“Good food, safe water, safe streets…” Windblade shook her head. It was ridiculous to dream about that project when she had another right in front of her. “I’m dreaming.”

“It’s good to dream,” Red Alert told her. She patted Windblade’s arm. “Your turn to take a nap.”

Windblade nodded and disappeared into the resting room. A three hour break would refresh her.

When she returned, all hell had broken loose and proved her worst fears. Two of the nurses, First Gear and Turnover, were vomiting blood into basins. Both of them had only a trickle of magic, and it had clearly burned away in the face of this sickness. Red Alert was working with them, but the half of the archers who had seemed to be recovering were falling back into delirium. When Windblade checked them, she found that their rate of bleeding was outpacing their ability to drink water. Dehydration and blood loss--a nasty combination.

Starscream was staring. At least he was out of the way, but he was utterly transfixed at the horror in front of him. Windblade knew that face--she left him alone. Every first-time healer had it at some point, and the only thing to do was ride it out. 

She lost track of time as she methodically prepared tinctures and potions, some to help her patients sleep and some to help them breathe a little easier. The beds had to be shuffled around since some of the patients had died and the new patients needed fresh linens and a bath before they could be put to bed. Then new charts had to be made or updated, and following that came their hourly attempts to get the patients to drink or eat something. The biggest concern was dehydration, but any attempts to have a water line put in intravenously only increased the amount of bleeding. Samples of blood and tissue had to be taken and packaged, with patient name, date, and hour of when the sample was gathered.

The day flew by without Windblade being aware of it. Red Alert hadn’t taken her break, too concerned with the new patients--poor First Gear and Turnover--to snatch a few hours’ sleep. 

Finally, with most of the patients sleeping or quiet, Windblade stopped to breathe. Her legs trembled and her hands shook, and she wiped her forehead to clear it of sweat. She didn’t know she smeared blood on her skin, and even if she had, she was too tired to do anything about it. 

While the ward was quiet, she started to boil water for fresh tinctures. Red Alert was sitting in a chair with her eyelids at half-mast--she would sleep better in a bed but Windblade didn’t blame her for trying to catch a nap where she was. Windblade went to check on Acid Storm--he had been rallying in recent hours, although he was still running a fever, and he was important to Starscream.

Starscream rose as Windblade approached and got out of her way as she pulled up Acid Storm’s chart. She measured his pulse, his fever--still too high, but he wasn’t in the danger zone--and listened to his breathing. His lungs were crackling, but it sounded a little better. “I’ve been trying to get him to drink water,” Starscream told her. “I can tell he needs it.”

Acid Storm’s breathing had a rasping quality to it, and his lips were dry and cracked. She couldn’t blame Starscream for trying to help. She opened Acid Storm’s mouth to check his gums and throat with her crystal light, and although his teeth were stained red, the bleeding from his gums seemed to have stopped. His nose was stuffed with dried blood, but when she wiped it with a warm, damp cloth, no blood followed after. 

Starscream didn’t watch as she checked Acid Storm’s lower body. Bleeding from the anus and quim was still ongoing, and she made a note to change his bedding and to give him a sponge bath. 

What did these results tell her? Was he still going to die, or was the lack of bleeding a positive sign? She closed the chart with a sigh. Time for the final test.

Red Alert had given her what-for when the other healer realized Windblade had been trying to tie the patients to life and suffering backlash when it failed, but Windblade still tried with Acid Storm. The yellow threads were thickening around his organs, but she thought that his body might be rallying in response finally. Maybe that was the key to why the disease was so lethal--it overwhelmed the body in such a rush that the body never had time to build up a response. If the patient survived the first few days, maybe that was a sign they would live.

“Well?” Starscream asked anxiously.

She shook her head. “I don’t have enough evidence to make even an educated guess,” she told him. “And I don’t want to make any guesses only to be proven wrong. He might live, or he might die. If that fever breaks, he might have a better chance.”

She left him at Acid Storm’s bedside as she went to check on the rest of the patients. Starscream turned over the problem in his head. If the fever broke…

He looked down at his hands and experimented. He had never tried to summon cold before, not the way Windblade could summon heat, but he thought that was because of her fire magic. He didn’t like the cold and never had, but if he could pull it out somehow…?

He put one hand on Acid Storm’s forehead and one on his chest and concentrated. The air temperature dropped around him, but it was only around Acid Storm, not in him. Why wasn’t it working?

Starscream considered the yellow threads of sickness in Acid Storm and then carefully touched one of them. With it in his magical grasp, he pushed cold through his hold to the sickness. 

To his shock, the yellow line wavered and then shriveled. It was still there, but diminished. Excited, Starscream followed the mess of tangles all within Acid Storm’s chest and applied cold to every one of them. The threads diminished or disappeared entirely. They were vulnerable to cold! He could do something about that!

“Windblade,” he called.

She looked up from one of the nurses’ charts. “What is it?”

“Can you make this room colder?”

She frowned as she came back over. Red Alert, hearing their conversation, heaved herself out of her chair to join them. “I used cold like you use heat,” he told Windblade, “directly on the sickness. They got less.”

Red Alert placed her hand on Acid Storm’s chest and checked for herself. “Interesting,” she murmured. “Cold might be the answer, especially if the base sickness was a warm-weather sickness.”

“Can we make the ward colder?” Starscream asked again. 

Windblade argued, “Cold will make it harder for them to breathe. It would be better to do it directly like you did with Acid Storm.”

“I can help,” Red Alert told Starscream. “If you show me what you did, I can copy it so that way you won’t get too tired.” She looked at Windblade. “Can you…?”

Windblade shook her head. “Heat is my gift. I’ll write up the observations.”

The next few hours, Starscream struggled in ways he never had before. His magic wasn’t used to being applied in this way, and it tired him. Red Alert helped, but by the time they were done with the last bed (patient #173), he was more than ready to sleep. Red Alert was just as exhausted as he was, and the two of them toddled off to the resting room.

When he woke up, he found Windblade slowly pulling a sheet over Acid Storm’s face. He rushed to her. “What happened?!”

“It went to his spine,” she said dully. “He started seizing an hour after you went to bed. Each time I brought him back, it got harder. Finally, I couldn’t bring him back at all.” She sagged. “I’m sorry.”

He pulled the sheet away to look down at Acid Storm. His second-in-command was as dark as he was, but there was a bluish-grey pallor to his face that death couldn’t fully explain. His lips were puffy and cracked, and from the staining in his mouth and down his neck, he had bled during the seizures. “Even with what I did…?” he whispered.

She squeezed his arm. “The ones who weren’t as badly off, they’re slowly recovering. First Gear and Turnover aren’t bleeding anymore and the sickness has subsided in them. But I think he was just too far gone. Once he became delirious, he was never lucid again. That’s a bad sign.”

“He survived being a subject for Shockwave,” he said through numb lips. “That’s what cost him his leg. And now he dies of this?” He rubbed his eyes with one hand. Anger was coming, but it was slow. 

The irrational part of him wanted to blame her, to shout and scream and throw a tantrum, but he looked at her and saw how pale she was. Her skin was a sickly yellow instead of its usual creamy gold, and her eyes were sunken. Her whole body trembled, and her magic--now that he was attuned to it--was far lower than he had ever seen except for the ritual exhaustion. She had worked to keep Acid Storm alive, but it hadn’t worked. It wasn’t fair to throw a tantrum when she was already blaming herself for something she couldn’t help. 

She took one of his hands. “I really am sorry,” she told him, her voice breaking. “I know you cared for him.”

He took the comfort that was offered as he squeezed her hands. His eyes burned, a sensation he wasn’t familiar with. What was going on? He had liked Acid Storm, but they weren’t close. Why was he so physically affected?

“I need some air,” he said as he detached from her. She nodded and let him go. 

He left the ward to breathe in the crisp, cold air of the early dawn until he was under control. He fixed his gaze on the wall without seeing it, instead imagining the Autobot army just beyond. I will destroy you, he promised it. For Acid Storm, and my archers, and all of the children who’ve lost parents because you allowed yourselves to be led by a monster.

And for me, too.

\--

_ March 14, 1037  
Iacon Plains _

Springer was dozing when the tent flap opened. He snapped to alertness as he sat upright, and he wasn’t surprised to see Prowl enter. “Surprised you didn’t send in Getaway,” he remarked as Prowl lit a torch and put it in a sconce. “Given his love of shiny, pointy things.”

“Torturing you would be pointless,” Prowl retorted. “You were trained for it.”

“Glad someone recognizes it.” Springer watched him. “Why did you do this?”

“You mean you haven’t figured it out?” Prowl snarked back as he pulled up a chair. 

Springer shrugged. “I haven’t decided if you’ve finally lost your reason or if you’re under a spell. You’re welcome to prove one or the other.”

Prowl’s lips tightened. “A spell?”

Springer pointed to just behind his ear. “So that weird mark isn’t a spell?”

Prowl felt behind his ear instinctively. “My actions are my own,” he said after he dropped his hand. “You of all people should know what Starscream--.”

“This isn’t about Starscream,” Springer interrupted. “If it was, you would have Jazz assassinate him years ago. Jazz could do it, no question, and he’d even enjoy it.”

“Jazz’s loyalties are...suspect.”

Springer stared at him. “So you have lost it. Jazz is one of the most ferociously loyal Autobots there is.”

“He was loyal to Optimus,” Prowl spat.

“Ah,” Springer murmured after a moment. “So that’s what this is about.”

“Pray, enlighten me,” Prowl said flatly.

“You hated him, didn’t you,” it wasn’t a question. “And now you want to do what he couldn’t--reclaim Iacon and kill Starscream. It must have burned that you couldn’t do it to Megatron, but Starscream’s always been the easier target, right? Except that now that Starscream’s out from under Megatron’s control, he’s far more savvy than any of us could have guessed. So it’s become a grudge match, fueled by your resentment of Optimus.”

“I made him Prime!” Prowl retorted. “And he never thanked me for it, even when I knew he was the right choice. He never let me do what was necessary.”

“Because what you thought was necessary was excessive,” Springer shook his head. He was going to die, he knew that. Prowl would never let him live knowing his vulnerability. If he was going to die, he was going to make it count. “And Optimus made himself Prime. You supported Sentinel, even his worst actions. Sentinel did more than any other Prime to get us to war, and you allowed it. You were his marshal, his voice of reason and his top advisor. If he went to war in the South, it was because you convinced him. You’ve always hated the South, even before Praxus. And Optimus wouldn’t indulge your hatred because he knew where it came from.”

Prowl’s lips were white with rage. “A pretty theory,” he growled. “One that excuses Starscream’s behavior.”

“Starscream is not the one on trial!” Springer forced himself to calm down. “He is what he is. But you--you were supposed to be better. And now look at what you have pulled us into. We’re fighting for a city that does not want us back, with two of the most powerful witches I’ve ever known against us. We will be lucky if they let us live.”

“Witches are not everything,” Prowl said.

“You’ve made that perfectly clear,” Springer retorted. “Did you know the princess didn’t mean to spell us for six days? She only meant for two. She could spell us asleep from the wall tomorrow and allow Starscream’s forces to slaughter us where we stand. The fact that she has not is proof that she is a better person than any of us. But with what you’re doing,” Springer didn’t know exactly what Prowl was doing with the siege engines but he knew it wasn’t good, “even her patience could break. Why would you bring that upon us?”

Prowl slapped him. Pain rang through Springer’s head, but Prowl had been right, Springer had  b een trained for it. He rotated his jaw and turned to look at Prowl. “If you don’t have a good answer,” Springer said, “then you shouldn’t be leading us.”

Prowl stood up and abruptly left the tent, and Springer started the clock in his head of how long he would be allowed to live.

\--

_ March 15-18, 1037  
Iacon _

Starscream’s trick with apply cold directly to the sickness only worked on those who hadn’t gotten as sick as Acid Storm had--the ones who only bled from their ears, their nose, or their anus with no seizures and a low fever. Red Alert and Windblade were busy setting up another ward for the recovering, just in case surviving the illness didn’t create immunity to it. It also was a way to keep an eye on them to watch for secondary infections--lung sickness was a concern, but flu and other fevers were something to watch for too. Windblade managed that ward--she had better chances of keeping them alive than the ‘contagion’ ward. 

Those who were ‘too far gone,’ in Red Alert’s words--he watched her try and try to loosen the hold the illness had on her patients--died over the following days. The pit Windblade had ordered to be dug got plenty of use as a cremation center. Even if Cybertron had the habit of burying their dead, the risk that the illness remained virulent even in a corpse was too much. 

Starscream wrote several letters of condolence and made arrangements to visit with the families of the dead once Red Alert deemed the quarantine no longer necessary. It would be within the week--Windblade’s observation of how efficient the disease was was holding true. 

He suspected that the survivors would have long-term effects of their brush with the illness, and they might always be more vulnerable to respiratory ailments because of how the disease affected the lungs, but they were alive, and at least part of that was because of his actions.

It was strange, to save lives directly instead of taking them. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

The other thing that was strange was how quickly the outbreak was over, once it was. The entire experience had taken place in roughly six days, but those six days had killed over 200 of his archers and his second-in-command. The only reason the outbreak hadn’t turned into a full-blown epidemic was because he had suspected something was wrong and ordered quarantine, but that was a cold comfort. 

“Are you saving the samples you and Windblade have taken?” he asked Red Alert in a quiet moment, when she was updating charts and he was running his hands over dirty linen, killing everything that rested upon it. His magic was turning the crimson bloodstains brown, but if he could kill anything that might have the illness on it, they wouldn’t need to burn everything used in the mobile hospital ward. They didn’t have enough resources to allow that.

“Yes,” Red Alert said. “This might be Pharma’s work, but there’s no guarantee it would remain only in the Autobots’ hands or that it might change, slightly. We might see it again, here or somewhere else. Better to study it and try to create an inoculation than to banish it and hope it’ll never pop up again.”

“You said it was designed,” Starscream thought it over as he put the newly ‘clean’ linen in one pile and picked up the next piece. “Did he build it?”

“No,” Red Alert made an ‘X’ on a patient chart--the patient died--before she moved onto the next one. “No one can create a disease. We can only...modify. Luckily--or unluckily, as the case may be--the disease variety out in the world is such that there’s probably some kind of disease that suits what you’re going for. This one, Windblade told me, is similar to something that struck Eukaris about three centuries ago. They called it ‘the bleeds.’ Diseases don’t ever really die. They hide or go dormant. If you can track down where the disease is hiding...Anyway, this disease was modified and designed so that healers couldn’t do much. Willow bark tea didn’t do much for the fever, and the usual clotting factors didn’t work either. It passes through air, so it was very much intended to be a crowd disease.”

He was starting to enjoy Red Alert talking to him like he was a peer instead of someone to be instructed, but that term drew him up short. “Crowd disease?”

“Diseases that live only a short time outside a host, so they need a large population of hosts as soon as possible, or diseases that are only lethal when they’re in a large population. Rice water fever, red pox, nervous fever, even cold and flu, they’re all crowd diseases.” Red Alert notated another chart before swapping it. “This one’s vulnerable to cold, and it’s been very cold for the past few nights. Whatever remained on the wall is dead now.”

“Otherwise the second shift would have been sick,” Starscream tilted his head as he thought that through. “So a highly efficient disease is also highly ineffective.”

“I don’t know if I’d say that,” Red Alert said with amusement, “but from a projected lethality standpoint, yes. We got lucky.”

“Dreadful luck,” Starscream muttered. 

Red Alert inclined her head in acknowledgement before returning to her charts. “What would you have done differently?” Starscream asked after some time. “In this, I mean.”

Red Alert paused to tap the end of her pen against the chart (this patient was alive). “I don’t know what could have been done differently,” she said, “except perhaps to ensure that more nurses were on hand from the beginning. I wonder if First Gear and Turnover wouldn’t have gotten sick if they hadn’t been doing so much.”

“An exposure is an exposure.”

“True, but they both have magic. A trickle, in their case--just enough to keep a wound clean and to better help their understanding of the body--and magic helps the body fight off infection. If they hadn’t been so exhausted…”

“What would have happened if it had gotten into the city?” It was a macabre scab to pull at, but Starscream needed to test to see how safe his people were.

Red Alert sighed. “The cases would have started to show up almost immediately. Most would prefer to stay in their homes--they would infect their caretakers and then the caretakers would infect anyone they came into contact with. To track a disease, you have to find all primary and secondary contacts. Primary being the index case, the secondary the ones who came into contact with the primary and other secondaries. We track the disease’s progress both to see where it came from but also to see if it loses lethality as it travels. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. The hospitals would have been overrun, and with all of the bodily fluids lost during the initial infection, even those who couldn’t catch it, like you and the princess, were at risk of carrying it to others. I suspect that it strikes those with a history of illness harder than those who are healthy.”

“Acid Storm survived being Shockwave’s test subject.”

“But he was always vulnerable after that,” Red Alert corrected. “I’ll have to run a medical history with the deceased family’s to be sure, but that’s an avenue to explore later.” She sighed. “I always thought the flu epidemic of 1021 would be the worst thing I’d ever see.”

Starscream looked down at the linens. He knew what Red Alert was accusing him of. “It started with us first,” he said. “Then Shockwave found a way to bottle it and he talked Megatron into using it. Shockwave was delighted at the chance--he said that most plague diaries only start after the fact, and it’s reliant on people's’ memory. He wanted to start from before it happened. Megatron allowed it.”

He put down another piece of linen and picked up the last one. “He thought that if it could help us win, anything was worth it. It’s why he allowed Shockwave’s experiments.”

“And you? What did you think of it?”

Starscream looked at her. “We had been victims of medical warfare too. Somehow that always got missed when the Autobots were crying about what we had done. I didn’t speak against it. I thought it was fair. I thought that it was an illness they would have had in any case, so why not introduce it? This, though.” He shook his head. “To create something resistant to healing magic is on a different level entirely.”

“I had forgotten about the medical warfare,” Red Alert said after a moment. “Everything I heard said that the South was constantly in the grip of varying epidemic waves because of the climate.”

“Oh, we had our native diseases, and and natural disasters brought their own complications,” Starscream replied, “but I can tell you we didn’t have red pox until after the Senate military brought it. And we had natural cycles of flu, so we knew it was strange when we had an outbreak that didn’t follow the natural cycle.”

She gazed at him, and he straightened his shoulders. Yes, the Decepticons had done awful things, but the Autobots had too. Shockwave’s experiments were based on old Autobot research. And the Autobots had earned the Decepticons’ enmity multiple times over.

“There’s a messenger,” Windblade interrupted as she opened the door to the ward. “From the Autobots.”

Starscream abandoned the linens and left the room. Windblade followed him. Just what did they want now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Red Alert from TFA. I was delighted to bring her in here. IDW!Red Alert also exists in this 'verse, but his character isn't relevant (yet).
> 
> Tell me things! I love your thoughts.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _love_ all the comments. Feeding the author gets more updates!
> 
> Triggers for this chapter involve flame, sensory inundation, and discussions and descriptions of blood.
> 
> Things are happening!

CHAPTER 25: SHADOWS OF THE PAST

* * *

_March 18, 1037 AP_  
_Iacon Plains_

Windblade insisted on attending the requested meeting. Starscream couldn’t  find the will to stop her--an angry Windblade unleashed on Prowl should be entertaining, if nothing else, but he watched her carefully. He had seen her angry and ranting, but he hadn’t seen her lose control. She shouldn’t lose it now.

When they finally rode out, Starscream was interested to see that only Prime and Prowl awaited them. “No Springer,” he observed to Windblade quietly. “I wonder what they did to him. Maybe he deserted.”

She shivered slightly. “Maybe he didn’t,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, but before she added anything else, they met Prime and Prowl in the middle of the Iacon road. 

The light was bad, bad enough that both of their delegations had brought torches. The wind blew with a sharp whistling sound, flattening the torches until it was as if it had been a fool’s errand to bring them in the first place. The horses shied away from the open flames, and Starscream watched as Prowl fought to get his mount under control.

Prowl, like most of them, rode a gelding. Starscream wished he was stupid enough to ride a stallion.

“So,” Prowl said--or shouted, really, the wind was terribly loud. Starscream wasn’t inclined to ask it to stop. “Are you ready to concede?”

Starscream tilted his head as Windblade’s hands tightened on her reins. “Why would we concede?” He looked up at the wall that loomed over their tete-a-tete with exaggerated dramatics. “The wall is still standing.”

“Is the wall enough to shelter what’s left of your people?”

Windblade nudged her mare forward, just a few steps. Starscream thought about grabbing for her reins but thought better of it. Entertainment was coming.

“What exactly is supposed to be what’s left?” she asked, her voice sharp. “Or do you know something we don’t?”

Prowl waved a hand lazily. “Come, come, princess, you needn’t hide the truth. We’ve seen the smoke from the cremation fires.”

“Have you?” Windblade held her reins in a white-knuckled grip. “Because we have seen yours also. Shame about your siege machines.”

There were only two siege machines remaining out of six, and one of those two was badly listing to the side. Prowl’s smugness slipped off his face to be replaced by a glare. “So you haven’t suffered from illness, then?”

“Oh, the typical ones,” Starscream said. “Lung fever, lung sickness, no rice water fever, thank Primus, oh, and--what did the Eukarians call it?”

Windblade gave him a narrow-eyed look before she picked up her cue. “I thought we had decided to change it.”

“Right! That’s right, we did.” Starscream found enough spite to smirk at Prowl. “The Autobot bleeds. Your name did come up as a potential, of course, but nothing had the right ring. At least this way the survivors and the rest of Iacon will know who exactly is to blame--we only lost less than two percent of our total population, and let me tell you, no one behind these walls is ready to roll out a carpet to welcome you. That was a serious miscalculation, wouldn’t you agree, Prime?”

Prime’s jaw tightened but he didn’t respond otherwise to the dig. Windblade took over the thread of the conversation again. “If you were going to risk everything on such a gambit, you calculated badly,” she said. The torches flared higher than Starscream had ever seen, but both Prime and Prowl ignored them. Maybe they blamed the wind. Starscream knew better. “We’ve written it up and will publish it to the world. Even all of your backers will know what a poison you have nurtured. Do you think Carcer will allow such an association to exist?”

Starscream admired the barb as Prowl made an aborted movement. Had they been on the ground, there was no doubt that he would have lunged for Windblade. Starscream nudged his horse to come up next to Windblade’s. “Careful that you don’t become what you despise,” he taunted. “Megatron would have given his eyeteeth for what you pulled.”

“You would know,” Prowl retorted.

“Indeed, he would have experimented it on me!” Starscream barked with laughter. “I notice your party is lacking something--or someone. Springer so ashamed of you that he couldn’t make this rendezvous?”

“Curious?” It was Prowl’s turn to taunt. “About the fate of your associate?”

Starscream raised his brows. “Associate? I’d never.”

“So you’re saying you wouldn’t attempt to sow dissension and mutiny in our forces?” Prowl snorted. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I’d never use Springer,” Starscream corrected. “Besides, to judge from your response, you’re doing it for me.” He smiled nastily. “Typically commanders who worry about mutiny have given their soldiers something to mutiny about.”

Prowl snapped his jaw shut and looked murderous. Prime didn’t look much better. 

“If I were you,” Windblade said, and the wind died as she spoke quietly, “I would consider the ramifications of a continued bombardment, or you will find out exactly what I can do when I am roused. It will make that sleep spell look like a child’s game.”

Prowl twisted his lips into a smirk, and Starscream knew what was coming. “I’ve considered it, Princess, and I’ve decided to continue.”

Windblade was still, and as he watched, Starscream saw a billow of crimson magic blow from her to the horses in front of her. There was a sudden sizzle and two things dropped from the bridles, and then the horses screamed and reared. Prowl and Prime tried to get control of their mounts, but whatever dropped was a crucial part of the bridle. The horses wheeled and ran for the security of the camp, leaving Windblade, Starscream and their guards as the Autobot guards raced to keep up.

Starscream dismounted to see what was on the ground. He picked up a piece of metal and realized, “Did you sever the bit?”

“They really shouldn’t link it to the bridle with something flammable,” Windblade said. The torches were inching down, closer to where they would naturally be. “And good luck getting a horse to carry the Prime again.”

“Clever,” Starscream said. “To take the bit. Not something I would have thought of.”

Windblade shrugged. “What do you think their next move is?”

Starscream turned to mount up. He clicked to his horse and turned his gelding back to the city. Windblade followed. “If I were them and this catastrophe just happened, I’d give it a couple days. At some point--especially if he’s worried about a mutiny--he’ll have to address his troops and do something big and showy to get their loyalty back. He’ll probably execute Springer publicly.”

Windblade tensed. “Is there--anything we can do to disrupt that?”

“I won’t waste my resources on an Autobot,” Starscream said shortly. “Not one that would willingly wage war on my city if Prowl hadn’t made so many leadership errors.” He returned to the original question. “I figure we have two, maybe three days before they start up again. Your little trick with the tack is going to make him think--I hope. Your magic is the unknown in this equation, and you’re pissed. When he realizes you burned the leather holding the bit to the bridle without hurting the horse--,” Windblade nodded, “he’ll need to re-evaluate you. He may hate you more than me, now. Congratulations!”

“We’ll need to do a memorial service for those lost,” Windblade said, ignoring his grin. “Better to do it now while they take a break.”

He sighed. “Yes, I agree. I’ve already put in an order with one of the more ornamental blacksmiths to create a plaque with all the names of the fallen. There will be more before we’re done, but at least he can get started.” He drummed his fingers on his saddle as the palace gates opened in front of them. “You should get some rest. I can see how tired you are.”

“And you’re not?” she asked pointedly.

He grinned. “Ah, but Princess, I am used to running on this kind of adrenaline. You’re not.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, and he chuckled. “That won’t exactly change anything,” he pointed out as they dismounted.

“No, but it makes me feel better,” she grumbled. She sobered as two grooms took their horses to the stable. “If that’s Prowl’s opening gambit, what cards does he have left to play?”

“Infiltration, sabotage, and firepower,” he told her as he offered his arm. She took it and he led them both up into the palace where Marissa, Thundercracker, and Ravage were waiting in the private library. “I’m guessing when he starts back up, he’ll use liquid fire. It won’t destroy the wall, but it can destroy everything else.”

“When you say infiltration…”

“There are lots of ways he can try to get people in,” Starscream replied as they climbed staircase after staircase. “Blend them with soldiers once ground conflict comes into play, some might make a play for asylum--oh, we’ve seen them all before.”

_I haven’t_ , Windblade thought, and she was grateful for not saying it out loud.

In the private library, Thundercracker was examining a map with Marissa while Ravage played with Victorion. The kitten was growing fast--she was already up to Windblade’s knees--but she played like every housecat Windblade knew. All of those actions stopped as Windblade and Starscream came through the door, to Victorion’s consternation. She batted at the string toy that Ravage was no longer shaking, and when that did not result in what she wanted, she made a low noise and stalked to the table, where she curled up under it, her tail twitching. 

“Well?” Thundercracker demanded as Marissa sat down in one of the armchairs.

Starscream threw himself in the loveseat closest to the fire. “We exchanged barbs, Prowl growled, Windblade burned the bit off their bridles, and Springer is probably going to be publicly executed.”

Ravage thought through that and settled on the most important thing. “You burned the bit off?”

Windblade sat down in another armchair and patted her lap. Victorion came out of hiding to launch herself onto Windblade’s lap, where she tucked her head into the space between Windblade’s hip and the chair back. “It wasn’t hard, it was connected by leather.”

“No,” Thundercracker said. “You burned it.”

Starscream turned to look at Windblade. “You haven’t told them?”

Windblade looked down at Victorion, whose purring was loud enough to drown out the crackle of fire in the fireplace. “For most people, being a cityspeaker is confusing enough before you add in all of this other nonsense.”

“For the record, I still don’t fully understand that cityspeaker stuff,” Marissa said cheerfully.

Everyone ignored that. Starscream turned to his brother. “She’s got life and fire magic. Don’t know why she has two magics when other magic people have one, but hey, she’s strange.”

“You can’t have life magic without fire magic,” Windblade said, annoyed. “That’s what I was told, anyway.”

“By who?” Thundercracker asked with interest.

Ravage cleared her throat. “So, my lady princess, you have fire magic? That’s--interesting. Why haven’t you put it to use?”

Starscream sighed dramatically. “She’s a pacifist.”

“I know that’s not true,” Ravage said flatly to Windblade. “Otherwise you wouldn’t take up the sword.”

“Life magic is sacred,” Windblade said quietly. “I won’t use it to kill.”

“Unless you’re not thinking because of air deprivation,” Starscream sang out. “Whoops, sorry, wasn’t supposed to say that.” He yelped when Windblade yanked a spark out of the fire and put it out on his thigh. 

“There’s still plenty you can do with it,” Ravage pointed out.

“Like not get sick when I’m running a quarantine ward,” Windblade shot back. “I’m doing plenty, Ravage. Don’t ask me to rain fire from the sky.”

“Wait, could you do that?” Thundercracker asked with wide eyes. “Because I can tell you that--.”

“This conversation is going nowhere,” Starscream decreed. He sat upright and swung his legs onto a footstool. “I think we have two, maybe three days before Prowl gets up the nerve to attack us again. She,” he jerked his thumb at Windblade, “has done some shit to severely rattle his confidence. Why can’t you put a sleep spell on them again?”

“I think those granite stones that they used to anchor their shield spells against the blizzards helped,” Windblade said slowly. “I’ve been thinking about it. I used the stones to help anchor the sleep spells, because they already had magic in them. Sleep is one of the easiest things to create, magically-speaking, and granite holds those kinds of spells for a long time. The Autobots don’t have those shield spells now. I think I drained them.”

“Well, Prowl hasn’t figured that out or he would have taunted you with it,” Starscream yawned. “He was in a taunting mood.”

“You’re the one who told him that his concern about a mutiny meant he had been doing things worth mutinying over,” Windblade said at her most stubborn.

Thundercracker grinned. “Oh, we can work with that.” He looked down at Marissa. “Up for some sabotage and propaganda?”

“I was wondering when you would recognize my abilities,” Marissa said. Thundercracker tugged on her braid. “Let me do the writing, though.”

“My writing is good!” he protested.

“Adequate, maybe.”

Ravage cleared her throat. “I have some agents who would be able to help without being seen.”

“Food stores,” Starscream said. “Foul up their medicines. Scare the shit out of them. You know, the usual.”

“Desperate soldiers do bad things,” Ravage explained to Windblade. “In this kind of campaign, if they’re already scared, frustrated, and running on low sleep, when they find out their supplies are tainted, that desperation turns into anger against their commanders who got them into that mess. We’ve done it before.”

“How do you make them scared?” Windblade asked. 

Ravage stretched, showing off her agility. “We use their environment against them. Thundercracker’s already whistled up a wind--.”

“The only thing I can do,” Thundercracker said glumly, “otherwise I’d have cold rain and thunder keeping them from sleep as easy as breathing.”

“--and then my agents will...distract them.” Ravage grinned, and Windblade thought she saw a hint of fang. “Don’t worry, Princess. It will be handled.”

“If you say so,” Windblade replied, slightly dubious. “What does the hospital need to prepare for next? I’m already working with Red Alert to come up with a working paper about the Autobot bleeds, but we’re still in a siege.”

The three veterans of Autobot skirmishes exchanged glances, before Starscream said, “Arrow injuries and liquid fire burns, I’d expect. If Ravage’s agents can somehow take care of those two siege machines that remain, arrows will be the biggest concern, and then they might use liquid fire to break the gates. It might even work, if the fire burns hot enough to break the defense spells.”

“I’ll let Hook know,” Windblade said as she hid a yawn behind one hand. Her legs were going to sleep from Victorion’s weight. “Does this meeting need to cover anything else?”

“No, that’s enough for now,” Thundercracker said before Starscream could. “Go to bed, both of you. It’s been a long several days.”

Windblade didn’t need any encouragement. With some strain, she lifted Victorion so that the kit was wrapped around her torso (still purring in her ear), and she toddled off to bed. Starscream could argue if he liked. She needed to purge herself of lingering quarantine anxiety, and sleep was always the best way to do it.

\--

_ March 19, 1037  
Iacon _

Windblade’s mind opened into a nightmare. She was back in the quarantine ward, but she was struggling to walk through three inches worth of blood. It was soaking into her shoes and to her socks, leaving the space between her toes grimy and damp. Every bed was filled with a patient who was spitting up blood, while blood streamed from their eyes, nose, and ears. There were patients on the floor whose contortions made it clear they were dead.

At the end of the ward, she saw Red Alert and Starscream, both coughing wetly. Starscream’s skin was colorless as his rubbed-raw fingertips dripped blood onto his blanket, and Red Alert’s eyes rolled back as she started to seize. Windblade tried to run to her, to help stabilize her through the seizure, but she slipped in the blood on the floor, which turned into crimson hands trying to drag her down, deeper into the blood so that she would drown.

Windblade woke up panting and sweat-soaked. Next to her, Victorion stretched and then turned around to peer at her with those startling tawny eyes. Windblade pushed herself upright and tried to catch her breath. She hadn’t suffered from nightmares in years.

When she felt like she could, she stood up to splash cold water on her face. Her hands shook as she poured herself a cup of water and she drained it in a few gulps. She was still sticky from fear-sweat, so she opened her window and closed her eyes in the cold breeze that wound into the room. _Solus,_ she prayed, _grant the dead peace from their sufferings, and please grant me dreamless sleep for the rest of the night._

Maybe it was a little selfish, but she was ready to be selfish. 

Her door slid open, and she half-turned to see Starscream, silhouetted by the candle in his hand. “You too?” he asked. 

“What was your nightmare about?” she asked as she rubbed her face dry with a soft cotton towel.

He made a face. “You don’t want to know about my nightmares.”

She sighed. “Want a drink?”

“Not that kind of drink,” he said, eyes wary. She shook her head.

“I was going to make tea, actually. I keep a lavender blend for nights like this.”

Starscream entered her room fully and sat on the edge of the bed after he placed the candle on the sideboard. “How often do you have them?”

“Often enough to justify the blend,” she sidestepped the question to put a kettle on her fire. She crouched and called heat to the dormant fire, and it rose at her summons. “You?”

“More often lately,” he admitted as Mau bounded through the open door to land on Starscream’s lap. “I went a long time without them--I guess I thought that maybe I was done with them, but the quarantine…”

What were these nights for if not ill-advised confessions? “I don’t like quarantines,” she told him as she sat on the perpendicular edge of the bed. “I never have. I run them, but they’re always tiring and scary. Even if I can’t get sick, everyone else is at risk and too often, I know the people in the beds.”

“And in quarantine, it hurts to think of them as people instead of patients?”

Windblade smiled bitterly. “Exactly.” She reached over to squeeze his knee. “I’m sorry about Acid Storm, truly. And I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for him.”

He nodded. He didn’t trust himself to have the right words.

The kettle started to whistle, so Windblade got up to tend to it. Starscream moved Mau out of his lap, who complained and went to snuggle with Victorion, and he swung his legs up and over the bed. The headboard was comfortable as he reclined against it and watched Windblade pour steaming water into two cups. She brought him one, and he curled his cold fingers around the deliciously hot ceramic. 

He inhaled the steam rising from the water. It was a delicate floral scent, not too sharp like he would have expected from lavender. Windblade sat at the end of the bed, her back against the post. “Give it a few minutes,” she advised, “when it’s a pale green, it’s ready to be drunk.”

Starscream blew on the water and tried to think of a safe topic for them both. Windblade beat him to it. “You know, Hot Shot tried his hand at plumbing once,” she said as she fanned away some of the steam from her cup.

“What? Really?”

“Well, ‘tried his hand’ is over-generous,” she said. “In the spirit of scientific experimentation, he wanted to know what would happen if a cotton cloth was pushed into a pipe that was slightly too narrow for it. His thinking, such as it was, was that cotton and skin have similar textures, so theoretically, cotton should repulse water.”

Starscream blinked. “But...skin has oils. Cotton doesn’t.”

“Which he then found out to his grief,” Windblade agreed, “when the cotton cloth was swept by the current until it went under the palace and got stuck in a turn of the pipe. He didn’t know it had gotten stuck, so he didn’t bother to tell anyone what he did.”

Starscream’s eyes widened. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Imagine my mother, as formal as she can be, giving an audience to the Carcer delegation--this was before I visited--and there being an almighty tremble in the floor before the floor splits with a crash and water erupting to douse all of them from head to toe.”

“Oh,” Starscream said faintly. “Oh dear.”

“Normally,” Windblade went on, “this would be embarrassing enough, but Lord Obsidian happened to be part of the delegation and his magical chair tends to--act strangely when soaked in water.”

Starscream covered his mouth with his hand. “What happened?”

“He got to know the contours of the ceiling of that audience chamber very well,” Windblade said serenely. “He was even able to alert my mother that a nest of wasp-mice had made their home in one of the corners.”

Laughter was starting to bubble up in his throat. 

“At first, my mother thought it was a freak accident,” Windblade said, “it happens, as annoying as they are. But then Hot Shot was too delighted by the outcome. After interrogation--which largely consisted of my mother promising not to be angry at him--he spilled the whole truth and expected to be congratulated for experimenting like the ‘Tepple sci-tists!’” He appreciated her use of air quotes.

“And I’m guessing he wasn’t?” Starscream raised a brow at her and took a sip of tea. It was light and fragrant on the tongue. 

“Oh no, not at all,” Windblade confirmed. “She was ready to scorch him seven ways to Sunday, but she remembered he was only four and that he hadn’t meant for it to be such a mess. She did make sure the Carcer delegation never heard that it was a four-year-old’s play that had caused such a ruckus, but she told my brother that perhaps such experimentation should be better left to said scientists and their supervision.”

“Did he try something like that again?”

Windblade shrugged and drained her tea in one go. “He tried to put a salve for baldness in my shampoo once. I caught it before I could use it, and I got him back with something he truly hates.” She smirked. “I put cold jelly in his bed the night before he was crowned the heir.” When Starscream made a questioning noise, she said, “All sources of fire are removed from his room, so he spends it in contemplation. It’s also supposed to happen the eve of his twelfth birthday, which just so happens to be in the middle of January. He was supposed to have hot bricks put into his bed, at least, but I--changed things.”

He chuckled at her deviousness. The jelly would cling to everything it touched, and when it was cold…

“What did he do?”

“He was not popular with the servants,” she replied. “If he had been, they might have told him who did it. Since he wasn’t, it remains a mystery, although he’s always suspected me. However, I lived at the Temple and was rarely at the palace, so he never was able to pay me back.” Her face creased. “He has since paid it forward.”

Starscream finished his tea and stretched out further. “You have a softer mattress than me,” he remarked. “I’m almost jealous.”

“Almost?” Windblade inquired with one raised brow. 

“I’ve never liked mattresses that eat you,” he said flatly. Mau jumped onto the bed and curled against his hip. He reached out to pat an unoccupied stretch of bed. “Come to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be awful.”

She remembered that the following day would host the memorial, and she winced. “Right.” She drained her tea and climbed into bed next to him. “Are you all right to sleep now?”

He looked at the empty tea cup, where the crushed lavender flowers rested on the bottom. “I think so.” He felt calmer. That wasn’t a guarantee of no more nightmares, but it was a good place to start. Earlier, when he had gone to bed, he had felt anxious. Nightmares made sense in that context.

She crawled into bed next to him and pulled the covers over her head. Victorion rose to stretch and then she collapsed onto Windblade’s side. He heard a very quiet ‘oof!’ and then Windblade didn’t say anything else. 

Sleep was slow in coming, but when it did, he slept deeply without dreams.

\--

_ March 20, 1037  
Iacon Plains _

Prowl pushed aside the tent flap of the prisoner tent. “Your punishment has been decided--,” he stopped in the middle of his sentence at the fact that Springer was not there. He blinked for a moment as his mind scrambled to make sense of what was in front of him. 

When his mind settled on the truth, panic kicked in. Springer was gone, and he knew too much for Prowl’s peace of mind. His breath came shorter in his chest, but just before he fell into panic completely, his logic and magic took hold of him. Springer couldn’t have done it alone, he knew. The Wreckers hadn’t been part of the bombardment; they had the opportunity to release him. 

So where were the Wreckers?

As Prowl exited the prison tent, one of his aides-de-camp showed up with a sheaf of papers. “Commander, there’s something you should know--.”

“I want the Wreckers in the command tent and I want them there _now_ ,” Prowl snapped to the aide-de-camp.

“That’s just it, sir. They’re gone.”

Prowl stopped, his mind scrambling to reorient itself. “Excuse me?”

The aide-de-camp swallowed hard and offered the papers. “They’re not the only ones.”

In the command tent, Prime was waiting. Prowl brushed past him to sit at the desk and to check through the pages. “We have about 700 soldiers who are currently AWOL, including the Wreckers. They’ve taken Springer with them.”

Prime raised his brows. “Such excellent security you have.”

“I don’t need commentary from you,” Prowl said. 

“Really.” Prime smiled nastily. “I think you need a rest. You’ve been working so hard, and you got us here, and you’ve been showing that strain.” He went to the outside of the tent while Prowl struggled to catch up to what exactly Prime was pulling. “Captain!”

Getaway popped into the tent. “Sir!”

“Please accompany Commander Prowl to his sleeping quarters and ensure he stays there. He is relieved of his command.”

Prowl shot to his feet. “Prime--,” he started. 

“He is being relieved of his command due to exhaustion and poor leadership,” Prime continued. “This demotion is effective immediately, pending a review of his actions in the field by a military tribunal. Commander Prowl, you are dismissed.”

Getaway was steeped in military culture and command, but since he was one of Prowl’s SpecOps agents, his eyes flicked to Prowl uncertainly. Prowl waited without saying anything--here was a test of everything Springer had been telling him, that Prime was known around the camp not to be Optimus and not respected. 

Then Getaway’s shoulders straightened and he saluted Prime. “Yes, sir!”

Prowl’s heart sank. He had been relying on camp scuttlebutt, but he had trained his people too well. The ones who might have refused the order had left, and Prowl had overplayed his hand. He hadn’t done that in a long time, and the feeling of the sting never changed.

“You were worried about the wrong kind of mutiny,” Prime told him quietly as Prowl went to Getaway’s side. There was no point in fighting it in this space now; Prowl was never good at that kind of confrontation anyway. To attack a Prime when he had been accepted as one would mean death. Better to capitulate now so he could scheme later. “Fool.”

Prowl ignored the taunts. More would come.

“Now,” Prime said with satisfaction when Getaway and Prowl were gone, “we do this my way.”

\--

_ March 21, 1037  
Iacon _

Starscream ascended the podium in utter silence. At the bottom of the podium, Thundercracker, Marissa, and Windblade were standing, all in white. Starscream smoothed his own white robes and looked out to his people. All of them wore white in some fashion--white armbands and scarves proliferated, but there were a few who wore full white costumes. They were in the city square for a communal mourning ritual, and they showed it.

He had to play this right. He had never been the most eloquent about grief--anger was always easier--but his people were looking for comfort and he had to provide it. “We are here today to mourn our people,” he said quietly. The people pressed forward to better hear him. “They were taken from us in a vicious way, something none of us would wish on others.” Well, maybe some others, but it wasn’t the right place to make that joke. “If it had occurred naturally,” he continued, “perhaps it would be easier to accept. Diseases happen. I lost my parents to one, and though it hurt, disease by itself is not a divine punishment. It happens.” People were nodding. Several previous Primes had tried to claim that disease was a tool of Primus, but only when it served them. When there were too many epidemics hurting everyone, the narrative of disease as divine retribution died. “But the fact is that this was not a natural catastrophe,” he said. “It was created to hurt us, and it succeeded. We are hurt.”

He paused to look down. Part of it was acting, but did it hurt anyone if it acknowledged the open wound of his people? “But though we are hurt, we remain. It is through the actions of our truly courageous nurses and healers that the toll was not greater and that the impact of this disease was limited. Would all of the healers and nurses who served please step forward?”

Windblade glanced up at him, and when he nodded, she and several others stepped forward so that the crowd could see them. Independent of his influence, the crowd started to clap and cheer. Windblade’s eyes locked with the ground--he could see how she bent her head to try to hide her face. 

He waited until the crowd settled. “Thank you for your service,” he told the assembled, “and we are grateful.” The nurses and healers melted back into the crowd. “This,” he continued, “is proof of the strength of our convictions. You chose me,” he had to pause to swallow a lump in his throat, “and you chose to remain here, even when it was clear that we were facing down an Autobot attack. It is in your strength and your choices that our victory is assured, and that those we have lost will not have died in vain. They will not go unmourned. After this is over, in this square, we will have a monument to them so that their names will not be blotted from history.” 

He had to stop to take a breath. His anger was threatening the edges of his control, and he had to keep it together for his people. Anger was something Megatron was known for; he could not afford to show it, not even in this space. “The Autobots made a mistake,” he told the crowd, “by striking at us. And we will prove that mistake by our success. Thank you for your support. May Primus bless us all.”

It was a short speech, as speeches went, but when the crowd applauded, he knew he had said all the right things and hit the right emotional markers. He relaxed slightly; even with tamped emotions, he could still use his silver tongue.

His people began to disperse in clumps. His family waited for him as he stepped off the podium. Thundercracker clasped his forearm and squeezed it. “You did good,” he said quietly, quietly enough that Marissa and Windblade couldn’t hear it. “You’re changing.”

Starscream rolled his eyes fondly at Thundercracker. “That’s generous.”

“No,” Thundercracker said firmly. “You couldn’t have done it a year ago.” 

Starscream raised a brow at him, but the ladies were tired of letting Thundercracker monopolize the congratulations. Marissa went to her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Very nice,” she approved. “I got choked up.”

“Then I’ve done well indeed,” he teased. He didn’t know her very well, but he did know that she was as stoic with her emotions as Soundwave was. 

Windblade had hung back, and when he looked to her, she nodded. From her reddened, puffy eyes, he suspected she had been crying and that her voice would give it away. He went to her as Marissa and Thundercracker loudly and deliberately left them. He was aware of some of the remaining townspeople watching as he wrapped an arm around Windblade’s waist. “Are you all right?”

“I will be,” she said, daubing at her eyes with her sleeve. She was in those white wool robes again, and he was jealous for how warm she must be. “I’m sorry, I’m--.”

“Stop apologizing,” he ordered. 

“I’ll get right on that,” she said.

He squeezed her hip to indicate she should start moving. They began the slow walk up to the palace, and Starscream nodded at the people he recognized. It was more than he had thought possible, but it had been those daily rides around the city that helped the most. When they reached the palace, she gently detached herself from him. “I have work to do,” she said. “And I believe you have a meeting with--?”

“Don’t remind me,” Starscream sighed. “He keeps telling me we need a constitution, and perhaps we do, but this is not the time.”

Windblade smiled faintly as she took her leave. Starscream’s ongoing struggle with Ultra Magnus was amusing on multiple levels--Ultra Magnus was such a person of integrity and respect for the law that Starscream couldn’t manipulate him the way he did others, and it itched Starscream. For her part, she thought Starscream needed an immovable object like Ultra Magnus. It kept him sharp and aware.

She was finally in the best place to finish reading her mother’s letter. She had been so angry about Starscream’s manipulations that she hadn’t wanted to read why her mother had chosen to allow the betrothal to go forward, and even though she and Starscream had talked through it, she hadn’t had the emotional fortitude to finish the letter with everything else that was going on. 

Finally, she did. 

\--

_ I’m sorry for your heartbreak, truly. But I do not think a marriage with her would have been happy. You have been through a great deal, and so the one thing I feel you deserve is a happy marriage. It may seem odd that I would choose Starscream of all people to give you that happy marriage, but several factors were in play. _

_ First, you were attracted to him. I will be the first to tell you that attraction alone does not make a marriage, but it helps. From what I saw--how you tended to his needs and served him at dinner--and from what I heard from others (the Mother Superior noted how easily you reached out to touch him in comfort when he was upset), I knew that you were attracted to him. Some people, like your siblings, show their attraction in typical ways, such as being tongue-tied or easily embarrassed in front of those they’re attracted. You, dear heart, show it by caring for them. Many, many times over the past few months you have shown your care for him, whether it was stitching up a cut on his forehead and falling asleep with him or tending to him in the aftermath of an internal attack. Yes, I know about those! _

_ Second, you two work well together. I heard about your tour of the greenhouses, and he--in his own strange way--is protective of you. He was very clear about his desire to keep you out of the loop of the negotiations, not out of disrespect (which is what I initially thought), but rather, so that he could win you over on his own. I’m not certain if he’s capable of such a courtship, and Afterburner thinks he is not, but I can admire the impulse.  _

_ Third, he understands where you come from when you make decisions. I believe you are more cautious than him, which makes sense. Impulsive diplomats do not last long, and your training made it clear that rushed work is sloppy and frequently has to be redone. Better to play the slow game and do it right. He would not be someone who sends you to negotiate and then publicly goes against anything you worked out. I am not sure that you understand him, entirely, but the tragedy of war would warp the brightest minds, and you do not have that experience to fully navigate it. Tread carefully, is all I would say to that.  _

_ I do have my concerns. No partnership heading into marriage is going to be perfect, and there is always the risk that marriage will bring out the worst in you both. For what it’s worth, I think you guard yourself scrupulously enough that you would recognize if he’s influencing you badly.  _

_ He has a temper. He is not shy about showing it, but I wonder if his history with Megatron and the rest of the war taught him about when using your temper helps versus hurts. I know you are uncomfortable with displays of anger, even your own, but you must remember that not all anger means something. You two will have to negotiate safe ways for you both to display anger without it being taken as a challenge or a threat by the other. I would recommend that you find a way to control his violent impulses. I would not normally go for such spells, but he might give in to the impulse and regret it later, because his prior training informed him that was how he stayed alive but is not helpful now. Blood is helpful in that regard. _

_ Remember, too, that good conquerors rarely make good kings. Starscream, according to our Intelligence, was not a conqueror as Megatron was. He was an excellent commander, if too brutal and ruthless for our taste, but he never--apparently--had the same taste to take the way Megatron did. He was also the first one to take the brunt of Megatron’s anger when something did not go as intended. Our Intelligence reports were very clear on that. I will see if my Intelligence chief will consent to declassifying some of that reporting to get you a copy. It may help fill in the outline he has created for himself.  _

_ He will need you to show him  what civilization looks like. I have it on good authority that Cybertron is still relying on law drafted in times of war as the primary source of law, and while that was acceptable, his betrothal to you is a marker to the rest of the world that he intends to end the detente between his people and the remaining Autobot faction. The first thing he should do is invest in creating a new law system, one with explicitly stated rights for his people. Just because Iacon is a thinly-veiled monarchy does not mean that rulers and nobles can do anything they like. That was what got Cybertron in trouble in the first place--as did that ridiculous democracy system the secular Primes created. It is better to raise someone to rule than vote someone into power who has no experience or education in what it takes to truly lead a country. _

_ I do not mean to preach at you, dear heart. But you need to remember that despite the revoking of your secular citizenship--you will always be a princess but no longer have the legal protections of your rank--you will always be a living symbol of Caminus in Cybertron. Your behavior and your choices will always reflect on us, and so you must live up to that symbolism. You must be beyond reproach. No longer can you indulge in excessive drinking, wild or loose behavior, or gambling. Whatever charities you choose to patronize must be transparent in their goals and methodology. Whatever you choose to partake in will reflect on you and thus on Caminus. Act for our welfare when you can. You are a diplomat on permanent assignment there. _

_ Your behavior will also reflect on your husband. Many a ruler have been moral failures, but because their spouse was morally upright, a bit of that was borrowed by them. If Starscream behaves badly, your correct behavior will soothe anxious watchers that Starscream is not that bad. It creates stability in the court.  _

_ Be wary of the people you accept in your circle. As a married lady, do not spend time with unmarried peoples in a social context without married chaperones. Do not pass clandestine letters or anything that could be construed as flirtation. Dress appropriately. It may be time to retire your hakama. _

_ Be as apolitical as you can. Starscream can be political, and should be, but his people chose him to rule them. They expect politics from him. They did not choose you. Do not offend their political sensibilities. Whatever work you take on, be sure it benefits all. Food production, medicine, communal gardening--none of these are things that could be seen as political. Do not engage with law enforcement, the courts, or the writing of laws. At best, you will be seen as an interloper. At worst, you will be seen as a schemer who manipulates Starscream and the court to her choosing.  _

_ When you have children, be as involved with them as you can. No one would fault a mother, and their childhood goes by too quickly. When they are old enough, take them to Caminus. They should know their heritage. _

_ The other aspect of your role as Starscream’s Lady is that you will be his hostess. Once Iacon is no longer on the edge of starvation and famine, you will entertain, and often. These occasions are excellent ways to shore up alliances and turn potential foes to your advantage, and so you must plan and prepare them accordingly. Try to find a steward who has experience in creating such events. You cannot be expected to do everything--the servants will resent you if you do--and so you must have a trusted executor. I have already begun to look for them to create recommendations for you in time, but if you could find a Cybertronian steward, that would be best.  _

_ Maintain our Camien traditions as best you can. No matter what you do, you will always be seen as a foreigner, and though you may be tempted to do your best to assimilate, the people will see your difference as clear as your tattoos, and so there is nothing to be gained by abandoning your traditions. Raise your children to speak our tongue and read it, and teach them the rites of Solus. You are our representative. Maintain what you can. _

_ Please forgive your sister. She thought she was acting in your interest, and it has hurt her deeply that you did not believe her. The longer you maintain your silence against her, the more it will take to repair the relationship, and you cannot afford to ostracize her forever. _

_ Your loving mother _

\--

Windblade tapped her lips with the folded letter before she placed it on her lap. She was stretched out by the water’s edge of Metroplex’s spring and she had just finished reading the letter aloud to Metroplex. “I hate it when she does this,” she confessed after a moment. “Give me this kind of advice. It can be so contradictory but even if it wasn’t, she forgets that I’m an adult who’s worked in varied politics and have created a reputation for myself. Then she presumes to give me marriage advice based on, what, her vast experience?”

Metroplex’s lights flickered gold and green--he was laughing. Windblade trailed her fingertips in the water and smiled wryly. “I’ll just do what I usually do--ignore her advice and figure out what works for me in this context.  But for the rest of it...it makes me feel sick to think I could be so manipulated by Elita, and then looking at what Starscream did--how can I move forward? How can I know if my emotional reactions are true?”

Metroplex’s lights flickered again, but she knew what he meant. “Sorry,” she sighed, “I’m focusing on that because the current military conflict on our doorstep scares me so badly that I can barely hold it together.”

Metroplex shone soft blue at her and the water warmed on her hand. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “A revenant is leading them, at least supposedly, and he’s going for Starscream’s head. How can I help? I don’t want to kill, but I’m not sure I’m going to have a choice.” She sighed. “It’s also a luxury and a privilege, for me to stand and say I shouldn’t have to kill, but it’s perfectly all right to support soldiers going out to kill and be killed. I want to be fair, but I also need to keep my magic clean. How can we kill a revenant?”

The water burbled a little, the equivalent of Metroplex shifting his feet. Then it swept over her hands and into her lap, and after it receded, she found she had a small cup’s worth of water in her hand. Metroplex’s lights flickered and Windblade looked up. “It’s not appropriate,” she protested.

The lights flickered again, with deeper colors, and she sighed. “I’d get into so much trouble for this at the Temple,” she muttered as she cupped her hand and tilted her head back to swallow the water he had given her.

The result was instantaneous. Images swarmed her vision as he reminded her of the acorn he had imbued with his power--its time was coming--and that the undead Prime was a blight on the landscape, a walking disease. The longer he remained, the greater the chance of his infecting those around him. The infection wouldn’t look strange, at first, but it would result in more violence and chaos that engulfed the people around him. For the sake of Metroplex’s people, the revenant Prime had to be removed. 

Solus had designated an heir for this time and place for a reason, she was told, and she would be needed in her full capacity. Do not fear the depths of her own power, Metroplex said, it had a purpose. 

Metroplex’s inherent magic rose to cocoon her as she covered her eyes with her hands. Metroplex had intended his gift to better explain himself, but there was a side-effect of sharing his power, even for a short period of time. Everything around her was more vivid and she was overwhelmed. Her magic, normally tamped down, sparked upward and showed her all the sparks around her, from the green outlines of the plants she was tending to the smaller red sparks of palace animals and the larger sparks of the palace’s humans. 

She didn’t feel the floor underneath her shifting until coolness brushed her face. Metroplex pulled back his magic and someone touched her. Eyes closed, she still saw the structure of the person’s veins and muscles. Blood carried life through the body; she saw the roots it took.

“My lady princess?”

She fumbled for the person who owned that voice. “Captain,” her voice emerged as a croak. She opened her eyes and was overcome by the magic and life around her; she immediately closed them again. Her second sight was still present and pinging her senses, but it wouldn’t give her a headache. 

“My lady princess, it is late for you to be out here. Autobot agents may move within the city.”

She flapped a hand. Getting up would take too much effort. Her legs were burning with the full strength of her magic. 

She heard Captain Barricade sigh, and then his hands wrapped around his elbows to lift her up. When she tried to take a step forward, her knees collapsed and she nearly fell, but Captain Barricade caught her on her way down. “Can you walk, my lady princess?”

She shook her head. Her legs hurt. “Sorry,” she whispered.

Captain Barricade picked her up, and she saw the surge of blood in his veins that accompanied the movement. She followed the magic in his body--his was rooted in his heart--and as she looked into him, she saw parts of his future. 

Was this what Metroplex saw regularly? She would have to ask him. It would explain how he knew who would be a good ruler or not. 

She patted Captain Barricade’s shoulder. “You will become one of the greatest of us,” she slurred. Her voice didn’t want to cooperate, but she made it do so. “Not for what you do, but for what you don’t do.”

“I see,” he told her, clearly humoring her. She let him. 

Victorion joined them at the top of the stairs that led them to the family wing. She hissed at Captain Barricade, her muscles bunching to pounce.

“Victorion, enough,” Windblade dredged up enough energy to snap at her cat. Victorion was startled--Windblade was rarely angry with her--and she slunk off down the hall with her tail hoving an inch above the ground. 

Captain Barricade followed the cat into Windblade’s rooms, and Starscream was waiting for them. Probably summoned by one of Captain Barricade’s messengers, Windblade guessed.

“Captain, what’s this?”

“I was visiting Metroplex,” Windblade told Starscream with her eyes still screwed shut. “He shared something with me.”

“You ridiculous creature,” Starscream groused. “I’ve got this, Captain.”

“Thank you,” Windblade told Captain Barricade.

She was shifted into Starscream’s arms. His power wasn’t based in his heart, it was based in his solar plexus, but there was a bunching of power around his heart. She probed it with her magic and recoiled as images flooded through her mind. 

“I know I haven’t bathed in a day and a half, but I don’t smell that bad,” Starscream started, but as he put her on the bed she burst into tears.

He was alarmed--he wasn’t good at dealing with people crying on him--and when he tried to let her go, she wouldn’t let him. With an “Oof!”, she pulled him down with her so that she could weep into his collar. “I saw it,” she sniffled, “the whole thing, what happened to you. I’m sorry.”

Starscream stiffened, but she wouldn’t let him escape her. “If it goes on any longer,” she told him as she tightened her arms around his shoulders, “you won’t be able to break it. It’ll settle into your heart and it will be frozen forever.”

Starscream could have broken her grip without breaking her arms--she even saw him gather magic along his arms and chest--but he chose not to. He didn’t relax, though. “You went to see Metroplex?”

She nodded. Her Second Sight was finally beginning to fade, but she didn’t trust that she wouldn’t be overwhelmed yet. “I wanted to talk to him. It’s been a while.”

“And he gave you advice?”

“Annoyingly vague advice,” she mumbled. 

Starscream huffed a laugh as Victorion bounded onto the bed and stopped, clearly confused by the twisted configuration that was normally two people. Clearly deciding that a configuration of two people meant twice the amount of knees she could drape herself over, Victorion pinned them to the bed as she tucked her head along the bottom of Starscream’s lower thigh.

“Your cat is crushing me,” he complained in Windblade’s ear. 

Windblade was not interested in discussing how both cat and city ruler were crushing her. “I really am sorry about what happened to you,” she said quietly. “He wanted to hurt you so badly, even in death, because he was never certain if he had been able to affect you at all.”

“The bully’s refrain,” Starscream murmured. “I would rather not talk about it.”

She turned her hold into a hug. “I know.” She was becoming tender toward him again--how could she not, knowing what she did?--but with tenderness came the danger of affection. She wasn’t ready to love him yet.

“I should really get some sleep,” Starscream said.

Windblade sighed and opened her eyes. The light was brighter than she was used to--the candlelight was a deeper orange--but she could manage. “Victorion,” she said.

Victorion chirped without opened her eyes. 

“Move, my darling,” Windblade told her.

Victorion flicked her ears forward and back but otherwise ignored her. 

Windblade decided to make an ultimatum. “If you don’t move,” she said, “you can’t have treats.”

At the word ‘treats’, Victorion’s eyes opened. “Yes,” Windblade went on, “get up and you can have a treat.”

Victorion bounded off Starscream--while managing to dig her claws in where it would hurt--and jumped off the bed. Starscream got up with muttered curses, and Windblade pushed herself off the bed. “She’s a fiend for pork jerky,” Windblade confided to Starscream as he shook his clothes free of plains cat fur (no need to make Mau jealous). “She can work on it for hours.”

“Better jerky than me,” Starscream said. He hesitated, and then he went into his rooms without saying good night.

She let him. She had made him vulnerable, and he wasn’t ready for that yet. For that matter, neither was she. She hadn’t wanted to know the details of just how he had been cursed, and she dearly hoped the entire affair wouldn’t show up in her dreams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are happening~~
> 
> The full text of the Mistress of Flame's letter can be found [here.](https://inkfic.tumblr.com/post/176356739892/please-look-below-for-the-full-text-of-the)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely love all of your commentary, whether you leave it here or at my writing [Tumblr.](http://inkfic.tumblr.com) It really makes my day, and I love to hear your thoughts. Whenever I get discouraged or unhappy when the story isn't cooperating with me, I go back and read your comments and get inspired all over again. Writing can be very lonely, when it's just you, the characters, and the blank page in front of you. Hearing feedback makes it less lonely.
> 
> I have an announcement! I have begun work on the MTMTE tie-in to this work. It will not be as long--Solus preserve us all, I don't know if I will ever write something as long as this again in one narrative--but the emphasis will be on Drift and Ratchet in particular. Characters from this story will show up from time to time, when it's appropriate, but as I was working on the end of this, I realized that Pharma and Prion were too much of a loose thread and it wasn't fair to you all to leave it hanging. 
> 
> That being said, please feel free to [message](http://inkfic.tumblr.com/ask) me with your thoughts regarding the tie-in. While I appreciate MTMTE/LL as a story, it's hard for me to fully appreciate all of the characters because unlike WB/TAAO, I don't actually like most of them. I know, it's sacrilege, but I have a hard time with certain character types and unfortunately, MTMTE/LL is full of them. 
> 
> As for this chapter, we have warnings for burns, gore, graphic description of wounds, and for PTSD-related emotional meltdowns. There is also a heavy trigger for discussions and descriptions of offscreen rape. If the notion of that is too much, the section in which that discussion happens begins with the sentence "Ravage stretched. “The Senate, individually, may have very smart but collectively ruled as a passel of power-hungry fools.”" and ends with "When Starscream reached the palace that night, the sun had set two hours before and his breath steamed in the torchlight."
> 
> There's also a warning for--not quite assisted suicide, and suicide isn't the right word, but mercy killing, I guess. If there's anything else I should have warned for, please let me know.

CHAPTER 26: CONFRONTING CRUELTY

* * *

_March 23, 1037_  
_Iacon Plains_

When Windblade woke up--her sleep pleasantly dream-free--Starscream was knocking on their shared door. “What is it?” she asked as she pushed off her covers. Victorion needed feeding, Windblade had the shredded meat waiting for her, but Starscream looked grim and unhappy.

Her heart squeezed in pain at the reminder for why that was all he could feel.

“The Autobots managed to resurrect two siege engines out of the destroyed ones, and it looks like they’re loading them up with liquid fire. The gate is already damaged, so we’re going to have to meet them in combat.”

“Oh,” Windblade said. Her magic was still topsy-turvy from Metroplex’s gift last night, and there was no way she could maintain her concentration to work in the hospital. Still, she could try, if only for a couple of hours. 

Starscream looked at her with impatience. “You’re not to go anywhere today,” he said. “You’re still unstable. I’ve already alerted my council--including Hook--that you’re not to be disturbed. But liquid fire can be frightening, and I wanted you warned.”

If her mind wasn’t so bleary, she would take offense at his high-handedness, but she just wanted to go back to bed. She looked at him and saw how the corners of his mouth were tight, and she realized, He’s afraid. He knew this was coming, but he’s still afraid.

Her Solus-cursed tenderness welled up inside her, and she reached for one of her hair ribbons that she had put aside yesterday before visiting Metroplex. Starscream raised his eyebrows as she tied the thin scarlet ribbon around his wrist. “What’s this?”

“You’ve never gone into a battle with a lady’s favor? In my culture, it’s supposed to keep you safe.”

He scoffed. “I doubt an accessory will help very much in that regard.” She stared at him, a little hurt, and he relented. “But thank you for the thought.”

She stood up on her tiptoes to kiss his forehead. _Prime of Battles, keep him safe. Let him return to me whole._

Her lips tingled as she stepped away from him, but she ignored that. She was tired and his magic was electrifying the air around him. When he came home and this mess was over, she would need to teach him control. He didn’t even know his magic was escaping him. 

“I’ll see you tonight,” he said, and he was gone.

Once Victorion had been fed, it was easy to crawl back into her blankets and pull them over her head. She had no liking for liquid fire. She knew what it was--flame crystals suspended in an unstable catalytic gel, usually kept in clay pots since water would stabilize the gel and render the crystals useless. There would be an ignition key outside the pot so that even non-witches could fire the pots. 

The problem was that once the gel began to burn, water only spread it. Windblade understood magical chemistry up to a point, and she knew that the application of flame to the unstable gel turned it into a new form, one that was invulnerable to water. The best way to put out fires caused by liquid fire was with dirt or sand, but when a person was burning from liquid flame, the use of dirt or sand to put out the fire devouring the victim’s skin and whatever was under it only made the inevitable infection worse. Victims typically died.

On that cheery note, her eyes slipped closed.

She woke up a few hours later, with the reek of chemical smoke drifting through the open window. She felt more settled, although her magic still escaped her grasp when she tried to bring it in. As she looked out the window, she saw thick clouds of smoke hanging over the walls and heard the muffled sounds of conflict--metal against metal, screaming, and the twang of bowstrings. She shivered and turned away from the window.

Her mind couldn’t focus on anything that might block out the stench of smoke and sounds of battle, but she was capable of using a needle. She took down one of her robes, one that she had always intended to mend and update but never had the time, and hoped it would be enough to distract her.

She settled in front of her fire where she would have the most natural light with her sewing kit, and she started to work on the shoulder seams of her red robe. The stitches were stretched to their capacity and would fall apart soon. 

It was easy to lull herself to calm with the rhythm of her needle. As she stitched, her awareness of the outside world faded to just the walls of her rooms. Victorion was playing lazily with a large, squishy ball, and Mau entered the room from Starscream’s open door. The cat jumped onto the bed and stretched out, his fluff pointing in multiple directions. His adult coat had come in fully at last, leaving him with fluffy cream-colored fur, while his paws, tail, ears, and face were cinnamon-brown and he liked to gaze at people with clear blue eyes. 

He liked to talk, too, earning Starscream’s name for him. He chirped to Victorion, who replied, and when Mau was tired of rubbing his fur all over Windblade’s sheets, he left the bed to lean against her legs. “Leave my thread alone,” she told the cat, aware of what he was up to. “Don’t ruin my stitches.”

Mau stalked over to where Victorion was kicking at the squishy ball, the picture of offended feline dignity. Windblade ignored him as she tied off one line of stitches and moved the robe around to work on the opposite shoulder seam.

Victorion was careful when playing with Mau, Windblade noted. She was aware that her paws were the same size as Mau’s face, and she kept her playful blows light. Mau was less gentle, but Windblade honestly doubted that his teeth could do major damage to the bigger predator.

As she pulled her stitches tight to repair the seam, she heard knocking on the door that led to the hall. “Come in,” she called, unwilling to put aside her sewing when she needed to tie off what she had just done. 

She was unsurprised to see Ravage come in with her full gear--a mirror, a slate, paper, and various writing tools. “Make yourself comfortable,” Windblade invited as she pushed a chair out with her foot. Her sewing basket was moved to the floor from the low table; Victorion wasn’t interested in thread that was smaller than one of her toe beans. 

“Thanks.” Ravage dumped the gear on the table. “I have been asked to keep an eye on you so that you won’t try to do too much while you’re still recovering.”

“I’m just sewing,” Windblade said, injured. It was true, although she was coming to the end of her seam. The hemlines were next. “How goes it?” She nodded toward the mirror. She knew communication devices well, although she had never had much success with mirrors. Flame was easier. 

Ravage nibbled on her bottom lip. “It’s roughly equal right now,” she said. “Apparently their forces have decreased, although it’s not due to plague or a mass die-off. I’ll send my spies into the camp tonight to see what I can learn. They’re used liquid fire, but it hasn’t hurt our people.” Windblade could hear the ‘yet’ tacked onto Ravage’s words.

Windblade nodded and focused on her stitching. Ravage wasn’t here to act as a companion; it would be inappropriate to distract her while she was working. Besides, this robe was a particularly fine silk, and she had to concentrate to ensure that her stitches didn’t ruin the weave. 

Some time later, Windblade jumped when Ravage said, “You couldn’t give this one over to Master Tracks?”

Windblade blinked to refocus on more than just the red silk in front of her. A low headache throbbed behind her eyes, but she had the right kind of medicine to make that go away. She had strained herself, that was all. “I’m sorry?”

Ravage was shaking out her writing hand and shadows were drifting down the walls. The sun was going down. “That robe. Master Tracks couldn’t mend it?”

“Master Tracks has been co-opted for the moment,” Windblade explained as she tied off her last stitch. “I don’t want to remove him for something I could do. Besides, I like to sew.” Her headache spiked and she closed her eyes briefly. “It’s calming.”

When she opened her eyes, Ravage was looking at her. It was a look Windblade was familiar with--Starscream wore it too whenever she did something he didn’t expect and he had to reassess her. “I know that the Senate nobles were all but useless,” she said, “but most aren’t, you know. My education may have been broader than the average noble lady’s, but even the average noble lady is capable of running a castle and defending it in a time of war.”

“No, I know that,” Ravage said. “It was the reason why Kaon and Tarn’s leadership were deposed. They were beloved by their people, and to break the back of the rebellion, they were sent to the Iacon arena to be murdered by gladiators for sport.”

Windblade blinked. “That seems...unwise.”

Ravage stretched. “The Senate, individually, may have very smart but collectively ruled as a passel of power-hungry fools.” 

Windblade wasn’t sure to laugh or not. It wasn’t her history. 

“No,” Ravage went on, “what surprised me is that you aren’t dependent on servants. Even Starscream had to have some sense knocked into him before he learned Soundwave and some of the other officers had the same standing as he did.”

That, Windblade could believe. “Did Megatron do the knocking?”

“If he did, it wasn’t in front of us. At least, not then.” Ravage flexed her hands. “So you know.”

“I figured it out. I’m just not sure what to do with it.”

Ravage sighed. “I didn’t know how bad it was for a long time. Starscream, after Vos was destroyed, was annoying. He was entitled and sarcastic, you know, the worst sort of teenager, and then he landed right in the middle of a war. He was clever and quick, but that only made him more annoying. He was more educated than any of us, and he was arrogant about it. So at first, when Megatron started knocking him around, it was in private. Starscream would show up to officers’ meetings with a broken wrist or black eye, and we knew that he and Megatron sparred privately, so we just wrote it off to their training. Megatron always used live blades, even in practice.”

Windblade draped the robe over the arm of her chair. Her hands were shaking slightly. She knew what had happened, but Ravage was coloring it in and she wasn't sure she was prepared to hear more.

“And Starscream became even more annoying. He hated going through adolescence when everyone else was an adult, and we mocked him for everything we could--his voice, how quickly he was growing and that none of his clothes fit right, how awkward he was...and he never treated it as a joke. I’m not sure he has a sense of humor, and he definitely didn’t have one then. So he became cruel, and when Megatron would step in, he would turn his sharp tongue on Megatron. Megatron didn’t care for that. It became common to see Megatron cuffing him or slapping him, no matter where they were. But it was always in response to Starscream’s goading, and so we never read more into it.”

“You know better now?” Windblade asked.

“It was when Soundwave adopted Frenzy and Rumble,” Ravage said. “They were war orphans. Soundwave couldn’t let these two kids go, and I think they were about eight. They were annoying, too, but Soundwave worked with them. Soundwave, he’s the soul of patience, and he never took them acting out personally. They were still working out their trauma, he would tell me, and they needed someone to take it out against. As those two kids settled and started going through adolescence themselves--by this point Starscream was in his early twenties--I looked at them pulling a prank on Megatron one day and instead of roaring at them or physically discipling them, he laughed and ruffled their hair. That made me wonder why Starscream got under his skin.”

“Sometimes you don’t realize what’s strange until you deal with children on your own terms,” Windblade said. “When I worked in the Temple, I learned--I learned, that’s what matters.”

“So then I started watching Megatron, not Starscream. Starscream was still annoying and arrogant, but he was a good commander. He could be harsh on his underlings, but I never saw him act out against his own captains the way I saw Megatron hurt him. So something was up there.” Ravage traced her slate. “I figured out what was going on. Everything that was going on. I was walking through camp one night when we were besieging Altihex, and I saw something strange, so I went after it and I saw,” she cleared her throat, “I saw Megatron fucking Starscream. I had suspected that was going on, but then I saw Starscream trying to push Megatron off him and telling him ‘No.’”

Windblade had known Starscream had been raped, and she guessed it had been by Megatron, but hearing it from someone who had seen it…”What did you do?”

“What could I do?” Ravage asked. “I told Soundwave. That’s when he told me what he had learned: Megatron sought out Starscream for that. Sometimes it was mutual and sometimes it wasn’t. It depended on Megatron’s mood and Starscream’s temper. I didn’t like it and neither did Soundwave, but Starscream had few friends and reacted badly the one time Soundwave brought it up.”

No one would stand up for Starscream and defend him from Megatron, not when he humiliated Starscream so publicly, Windblade thought. As if Ravage had heard what she was thinking, Ravage grimaced. “It was hard to feel sorry for him. It took me a long time to understand that even if Starscream had been perfect, Megatron would have still gone after him, so Starscream decided to be as unpleasant about the whole thing as possible. It may have been a coping mechanism, but it didn’t win him any allies who worshipped the ground Megatron walked on.”

“How did you get caught up with Megatron?” Windblade asked. “Are you from Tarn or Kaon?”

Ravage laughed bitterly. “No, I’m from the West. I came into Megatron’s revolution for Soundwave, and I stayed because of Soundwave.”

“Do you love him?” Windblade asked, a little uncertain.

“He’s my son,” Ravage said, “I found him wandering the streets of Tarn, out of his mind because his magic was crossing with all of the loose magic of the city, and I took him home, fed him, and taught him control. He fell into Megatron’s orbit when he was nearly grown. I wasn’t all that impressed by Megatron, but he had a point, and Soundwave wanted to join him.”

“Oh,” Windblade said.

“My people are very clear about supporting family,” Ravage said. “Maybe if Starscream had--it doesn’t matter now. Starscream was too cruel to Soundwave too many times for me to want to empathize with him, at least, right up until I saw--what I did. Then it made sense, but it didn’t turn Starscream from an ass to someone who wasn’t.”

“What made you turn against Megatron?” It was almost a relief, to hear what had happened from someone who was there and was willing to talk about it. She didn’t like what she was hearing, but that didn’t mean she was ungrateful for the given information. “Or what made Soundwave turn against him, I guess?”

Ravage gave her a wry look for correctly guessing it was the shift in Soundwave’s loyalties that shifted Ravage’s. “It was the end of the war,” Ravage said finally as she tapped her pencil against her stack of notes. “Megatron had spoken of the end and what he wanted to do for practically as long as the war had been going on. He had seen a glorious future. When it came time to enact the future, he realized he didn’t really care for organized dissent that’s necessary for making a government work. Then came...other things.” Ravage stretched. “I always thought Megatron had kept Starscream alive because even though Starscream was annoying and rude and disruptive, he provided a perspective that Megatron couldn’t see. Megatron could get tunnel vision, and Starscream saw the bigger picture. He had been raised to rule, so he understood how people worked. Then, after the war ended and Starscream continued to be a dissenting voice, I saw how close those calls had come. I don’t think he can be killed, not really. If Megatron slit his throat and he survived, I don’t think Starscream will die unless he allows himself to. I can’t decide if that means he has a deep strength of purpose or just deep-seated spite. Maybe both.”

Windblade chuckled as Ravage grinned. They both knew Starscream was as likely to act on spite as on reason. “For all that he’s spiteful and cruel and selfish, Starscream knows the power of having dissenting voices. He let me bring on Ultra Magnus, even though he hates him. He’s going to make Bumblebee part of his council too, and he thinks Bumblebee is a sentimental fool. If I can convince Jazz to stay, Jazz will be on that council too. If Starscream chooses to do something, it will be because he’s considered all of the options and is doing it anyway. I never saw Megatron act that way.”

Windblade looked down at her hands. She wasn’t sure what to say to that. Her mother tended to prefer strong-minded advisors, but they never disagreed with her publicly, not even in Council meetings. If they did disagree, they pulled her aside on a one-on-one basis to try to illuminate their point. Was it better to have public dissension so that when agreement came, it was equally public? Or was it better to present a united front and disagree in private?

“And you,” Ravage added as an afterthought. “I saw the marriage contract he’s drawing up. I don’t know how you got him to agree to that, but good for you.”

Windblade looked up. “He’s drawing up the marriage contract?”

Ravage nodded. “He’s an excellent legal writer. Even Ultra Magnus can’t do better than him, and believe me he’s tried. I doubt his tutors taught him that when he was nine, ten, so I don’t know how he picked it up but we’re all grateful he did. Even Jazz can’t wriggle out of one of Starscream’s contracts.”

This line of conversation was too uncomfortable. Windblade changed the subject and did it artlessly. “What drew you to Iacon if you’re from the West?”

Ravage sighed, all of her humor gone. “That’s a long story, and one I don’t feel like sharing.” She held up a hand. “No, it’s not an insult to you. Very few know it, and I prefer to keep it that way.” Her eyes glinted with some kind of feral magic as she looked at Windblade. “Maybe, if we both survive this, I’ll tell you about it if you tell me what exactly happened with you and Elita.”

Windblade swallowed, her throat dry. “That is...a difficult story for me.”

Ravage’s grin was mirthless. “See? Fair.”

\--

When Starscream reached the palace that night, the sun had set two hours before and his breath steamed in the torchlight. He was tired, dirty, and his right arm ached when he hadn’t been quick enough to dodge a knife blade, but other than that, he had no injuries. He had been lucky--Thundercracker hadn’t gotten off so lightly as a cut. He was with Hook now, getting a scalp gash sewn up. He had lost his helm in the melee and had been rewarded with an arrow graze. 

Starscream left his armor by the front door. He was too weary to do anything else with it.

He entered his private room to a surprise. Windblade was putting the finishing touches on a trolley containing--he sniffed--onion and potato soup, hot tea, and a good thick crust of bread. She turned around as she heard him enter, and she smiled at him. “I thought you might want something you didn’t really have to chew. I’ve ordered a bath for you as well.”

He stared at her, his brain scrambling to understand. “Why?” he said finally as he kicked off his boots. 

She flinched when the boots hit the half-wall that separated his bedchamber from his private parlor. “I wasn’t sure you would have thought of this as you came up.”

It was true, he hadn’t, but temper pricked him anyway. “There was no need for it,” he said shortly. “I’m fine.”

Her smile was looking fixed. “It was no trouble, I didn’t know if you had had the chance to eat earlier.”

He hadn’t. His temper roared into being, aggravated by being dirty and tired. “I didn’t ask you to do this,” he snapped. “Stop doing things for me!’

She set her jaw. “You didn’t seem to mind before.”

“I mind now,” he retorted. “Just--stop! What do you know about this, anyway?” He sneered at her. “Spent your day being utterly useless, weren’t you? You can’t even stop liquid fire!”

“That’s not fair,” she said as she paled. 

“Try me,” he said. 

She stared at him, and then she left through their connecting door. He locked it behind her, too angry to want her to be able to barge in as she liked.  Mau was on the bed, licking a paw, but when Starscream turned on the cat, Mau stood up and jumped off the bed. He ran for the study and climbed on top of the bookshelf.

So even the cat knew he was in a temper. Marvelous.

His anger cooled the bath water until it froze against his skin. He hated being cold, and being damp and cold was the worst. 

He couldn’t eat, too bothered by the reek of liquid fire in his nose and the suspicion that his food was poisoned. He hated the mix of burned sugar and smoke that marked liquid flame--sugar was used in the suspension gel because when the flame crystals ignited, the hot sugar would burn straight to the bone. He wouldn’t put it past the princess to drug him, to “help him rest.” Well. He wouldn’t give in to her game. 

His anger kept him awake longer than he should’ve been awake. Going into battle on little sleep was suicidal, but he knew what this was. It was his version of ‘running hot,’ and all he could was wait it out.

\--

Chromia found Windblade on the floor of her personal greenhouse, holding her knees to her chest. She had stopped crying, but Chromia could see the streaks where the tears had dried. It had been a long time since Windblade cried like that, and for a moment, Chromia wanted to commit murder. Then Windblade looked up at her, her eyes puffy and red, and Chromia's anger washed away in a flood of concerned affection.

“How did you find me?” Windblade rasped as Chromia closed the door quietly. 

“That cat of yours. She’s curled up outside the door, looking heartbroken.”

“I won’t let her in here. There are too many things that could kill her.” Windblade breathed out shakily. “Why did you come looking for me?”

“It’s two hours until dawn and you weren’t in your rooms,” Chromia replied. “It doesn’t take a genius to know that you and Starscream quarrelled, so where would you go to feel more comfortable?”

“That doesn’t tell me why,” Windblade pointed out as she stretched out her legs with a wince. She started to bend and release at the knees, probably to help bring feeling back into them. 

“I haven’t seen you in a while, since this whole,” Chromia made a face, “mess. Your hair looks like a weaver’s nest, you know.”

Windblade felt her hair instinctively and made a face. “Ugh.”

“Come here,” Chromia said as she pulled out a small comb from her belt pouch. She kept her hair cut short, a sign to fellow Camiens that she was trained as a warrior, but even her hair was obstreperous from time to time. Windblade got up--her legs were working again--and she moved to sit in front of Chromia on the potting bench. 

This type of care was one they had both done for each other, and Windblade relaxed under the familiar ministrations, as Chromia had suspected she would. To keep herself upright, Windblade crossed her legs in a tailor’s seat and tried not to move her head.

“Do you know why I feel so drawn to take care of people?”

Chromia hummed as she worked on a stubborn knot. “I think I do, yeah.”

Windblade flapped her hand in a ‘go on’ gesture, and Chromia hid a fond smirk. “I blame the Temple,” Chromia said after a moment. “You were taught by priestesses that acting for yourself was selfish and that the highest calling anyone can attend to is to serve others. You struggled with it at first, remember?”

Windblade thought about it. “You mean the times I broke fast in the first year because I was too hungry?”

“Well, that, but you stayed up later than you were supposed to, you didn’t observe lights out--.”

“I don’t like the dark.”

“So they had to make allowances,” Chromia said, “and then there was the emotional stuff. You were a pretty generic twelve-year-old when you went to them. Your emotions were all over the place. Being in with the novices for your first two years didn’t help anything. Slowly, they taught you that emotional expression was selfish and put the onus on the people around you to react to you instead of what was going on.” Chromia made a rude noise. 

“But isn’t it, though?”

“It’s not healthy,” Chromia said. “Everyone should learn to compartmentalize their emotions, yes. You need to take an experience as it comes with the right kind of thinking and response, but they never taught you how to deal with the second phase of compartmentalization. You needed to learn how to process those emotions in such a way that you knew what you were feeling and why and what to do with them so that they didn’t hinder you going forward. You didn’t really start to learn that until you left the Temple, and it’s something you still struggle with.”

“I do not,” Windblade protested. 

“Why are you out here crying?” Chromia asked. “And how are you dealing with your nightmares of your recent quarantine?”

“How does that affect why I take care of people?”

“It was the only way you could express emotion without being taken to task for it,” Chromia said as she combed Windblade’s hair down her back. Most of the tangles were out, but there was one in the bottom layer that was fighting the comb. “And then you were also trained for service. What’s cityspeaking? That kind of education is appropriate--sort of--for a priestess who will only live and serve in the Temple, but it’s not the right upbringing for a future diplomat. Different skills for different roles, sparrow.”

Windblade sighed. “I don’t like this,” she murmured. “How do I stay myself and still be selfish?”

“There’s a difference between selfishness and self-interest.” Chromia frowned at the knot. It was catching at her comb with an odd sound. “Not everyone wants their needs to be anticipated. Some would like to ask or be asked, first. It’s a way of giving consent. If you take care of someone before they ask it, and do it regularly, it’s telling them that you can treat them better than they do themselves, and that irks people. A bit here and there, as a gesture, is kind and is taken as such. To make it a habit, they might wonder why you do it. And then there are some who genuinely prefer to take care of themselves.”

“But if I can do it, shouldn’t I?” Windblade argued. “I make sure that you don’t have wheat-based foods when we travel.”

“You and me have a relationship,” Chromia said. She put the comb down to feel out the tangle with her fingers. “It’s part of the way you care for me, as I care for you. It’s not…” she tried to find the right word. “It’s a equal relationship, how we do it. When you’re the one constantly doing the caring and other emotional work for the other person, it becomes lopsided and eventually you both resent each other. It isn’t fair for one person to do all the work in a relationship.” She hesitated, and then dared, “That isn’t how you and Elita worked.”

The tangle was slowly giving way under Chromia’s fingers, until she held two tarnished silver circles in her hand. She peered down at them as her mind worked to place them. Ah yes, she knew what this was. “Your contraception charm just broke.”

“Hm?” Windblade offered her hand, and Chromia dumped the metal into it. “Oh, I suppose it was time. You know that the Mother Superior gave it to me for my twentieth birthday. It’s held up really well.”

“You’re going to need a new one,” Chromia said. The tangle was easing now that the hair charm was out. “I have no idea who to ask here for that without it being a big deal.”

“I’ll ask Marissa,” Windblade yawned. “She can probably recommend someone.”

“Her, I like,” Chromia swept the last of Windblade’s hair away over her shoulders. “She’s practical.”

“And you do enjoy pragmatism,” Windblade drawled. 

Chromia bent down to kiss Windblade’s temple. “You’re not a bad person, far from it. But in your quest to be a good person, you forget that the important thing is not to be seen as good but to instead do good things. It’s okay to think about you and want it to be about you sometimes. If you don’t learn that soon...Solus might put you in the situation where you’ll have to.”

Windblade made a face at her. “Thanks, bear. That’s really helpful.”

“I was trained in the Temple too,” Chromia said innocently. The dawn was beginning to paint the sky pink. “Are you going back to your rooms to get some rest?”

Windblade shook her head as she took a hair ribbon out of her robe pocket. “I think I want to work today. I was told that yesterday I was useless.”

“But you were recovering for magical overstimulation,” Chromia said. “You couldn’t have done the work in any case.”

“Maybe not, but the accusation stings. I don’t want to be useless.”

“Maybe that’s the root of your problem,” Chromia told her as Windblade braided her hair and tied the ribbon at the end of it. “You don’t have to be constantly working so that you’re not seen as useless.”

“That being said, there are things I can do that others can’t,” Windblade reminded her. She turned and kissed Chromia’s cheek. “Thank you. Maybe we can talk about this later.”

Chromia nodded. “Are you taking your cat with you?”

“A predator in a hospital wing is a bad idea,” Windblade said. “She can go with you.” She was gone before Chromia could refute it.

Windblade didn’t exactly run to the hospital, but she did walk very fast. Chromia liked cats more than she was willing to admit, and Victorion was charming.  Chromia would look after her while Windblade worked.

The hospital was bustling, and Windblade ignored the front doors to enter around the side. Injured soldiers, civilians, and “interested citizens” (read: gossipmongers desperate for any kind of news) milled in the front hall, and she did not need to add to the chaos found there.

The nurses she had taught in the past few weeks leading up to this all brightened when they saw her. One of them--First Gear, still a little pale from her brush with the Autobot bleeds--handed Windblade a robe kit and pointed to a changing room. Each robe kit contained a robe, a face mask, a hair cover, gloves, and shoe covers. Windblade stripped down and put on the hospital uniform and when she came back out, Hook was waiting for her.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked cheerfully. She opened her mouth, but he waved her off. “I don’t care. We’ve got a ward full of burns, and I’m due in surgery. Red Alert’s running the field hospital near the walls. It’s on you.”

Windblade nodded. “I’m going to need--.”

“Nurses I have assigned, and I’ve given you my green witch, too.” Hook slid open the door and Windblade inhaled the noxious cocktail of cooked meat, burned sugar, smoke, and blood. She started to cough, and someone Windblade did not know came over to offer a pot full of some white cream. 

Windblade eyed the cream and took a finger’s worth. “Under my nose?”

The nurse--judging from the uniform--smiled and nodded. “Hook said you were clever.”

“Princess Windblade, may I present my sister, Master Mixmaster. She’s a green witch and herbalist. She brews up most of my medicines.”

Windblade glanced at Hook and then at Master Mixmaster. Hook’s skin was dark brown and he had keen black eyes. He was bald, although Windblade hadn’t found out if it was by choice or not yet. Master Mixmaster, on the other hand, had tawny brown skin with hazel eyes. Her hair was light brown and pinned to her head in braids. 

“Half-siblings,” Master Mixmaster clarified at Windblade’s look. “Our father got around.” She flashed a mischievous smile at Hook. “I can debrief her from here.”

“Good,” Hook grunted. He left. 

“Some of these are pretty usual burns,” Master Mixmaster said as she led Windblade further into the ward. “I’ve tried to keep them separate from those suffering burns from liquid fire. If we had the staff and space, we’d have them in two wards, but--alas. I’ve been using your burn ointment on those suffering from liquid fire, and I’ve seen real improvement from those who were secondary victims. Primary victims, however…” she shook her head. “If they were burned on the face or torso, it’s only a matter of time.”

Windblade looked down the ward and saw twenty-three beds full. The primary victims of liquid fire were easy to find--there were three, and they were in the corner of the ward. Secondary victims filled the beds from the corner to where Windblade stood, and she counted ten victims. The other side of the ward had ‘normal’ burns, still red and angry, but the scent of burned sugar was less on that side of the ward.

“Why the sugar?” she asked, although she suspected she didn’t want to know.

“It was included in the suspension gel,” Master Mixmaster said quietly, her cheer dropping away. “I’m not sure why, it doesn’t need sugar. The only benefits of sugar are the structure it provides and the fact that when sugar burns--.”

“When it lands on people, it goes straight to the bone.” Windblade understood the smell surrounding Starscream last night now. “That’s probably why. I’d like to examine all of them myself, if you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine,” Master Mixmaster said. “I can only treat what I can see. You can examine their internals. Hook was trying to help, but trying to keep a hospital this size in order when we’re short on surgeons is a thankless task.”

Windblade nodded. They would need to recruit healing talent, she thought. She could reach out to Navitas and Eukaris for healers looking to learn and gain experience. Then she put the thought away. She couldn't think about future plans when she wasn't sure they would live to see the morning. 

The “normal” burn victims, as Master Mixmaster had named them, had burns of varying severity. Most of them only needed a treatment of ointment and some debridement before they would be all right. The worst of the lot had a burn that covered his face, neck and ear. It had destroyed most of his nose and his lips were badly burned. Thank Solus, his eyes only had smoke damage. “How did you get this?” she asked. 

He wheezed as he tried to answer, and she realized his throat and likely his lungs were burned as well. He had breathed in flame. “Never mind,” she said as he tried to breathe. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Master Mixmaster had followed Windblade from bed to bed, and one of Windblade’s trainees had completed their little group. “I want--Blaze and Ameliorate,” she told the nurse. “Unless they’re in surgery or someplace they absolutely cannot leave, they have to come here. They have the steadiest hands for what we need.”

The nurse ran to obey and Windblade sensed Master Mixmaster considering her. She looked and met the green witch’s eyes. “They were trained by Hook for wound treatment, particularly for burns of both natural and chemical means. They can perform debridements while we work on other things.”

Master Mixmaster nodded. 

Once Windblade had finished checking the left side of the ward, she steeled herself to check the right side. She had to start with the worst cases. She was a believer in hearing bad news first, and this tendency carried over in everything else she did. 

Of the three victims, one had died by the time Windblade crossed the room. “He had been in and out all night,” Master Mixmaster told her as Windblade pulled the sheet over the victim’s face. “I knew it was only a matter of time.”

Windblade nodded. She didn’t trust her voice. 

The two remaining were suffering from fever and delirious. They chattered nonsense as Windblade found unmarked skin to run her magic along. The damage went deeper than skin; the problem with burning things down to the bone is that there were typically things in between the skin and bone that did not need to be burned into ash. 

These two had faced the explosion face-first, and had lost their faces for it. Their mouths and noses were ruined holes in their face, and their eyes were gone. Ears had shriveled into blackened spots against what skin remained. 

Death lurked among their veins and in the still-burning lung tissue. She doubted even Starscream could bring these two back. It would be a terrible death--every breath they took simultaneously fed and starved the fire burning in the lower reaches of their lungs. They could stay like that for days or even weeks, unless the fever from all of their rotting tissue killed them first. 

She knew what she had to do for them, but she wasn’t ready to do it, especially with Master Mixmaster watching her. Every healer knew this ledge, but she didn’t want it to be the first thing Master Mixmaster saw her perform. 

“I have poppy oil,” Master Mixmaster offered. “It can relieve some of their pain. If I mix it with willow bark, I might be able to stabilize them.”

It was a test. Windblade took a deep breath and exhaled. “Help them sleep. Sleep is the best treatment at this point.”

Master Mixmaster nodded and left her. Windblade examined the rest of the liquid fire victims. One was steadily growing worse, since the burns had gone under the skin and were racing toward the torso. They would die--not today, not tomorrow, but likely by the end of the week. The rest of them were a toss-up.

Why sugar? She wondered as she smoothed ointment into the youngest soldier’s ankles where the liquid fire had splashed. There were other substances that could provide structure to the gel without this kind of risk. Moreover, sugar was expensive, both to make and transport. Why waste it in this?

As she moved onto the next bed, she tacked on another question. Where were they getting it? Sugar was a product of hotter climates. Navitas had a thriving sugar trade, but they didn’t trade with the Autobots. There would have been documentation about it and she would have seen the sugar casks when she was an Autobot ‘guest,’ but there was no evidence of that. Where else was sugar manufactured?

It didn’t matter right then. She had patients in front of her.

She was capable of performing debridement, and after Blaze and Ameliorate started their work on the normal burn victims, she focused on the liquid fire victims to see if debridement would help them survive. As tissue was exposed, smoke rose from the still-burning muscles, but she knew how to smother those flames. Ointment was applied and killed the burning, and Windblade was grateful for the cream smeared under her nose; it kept the smell of cooked meat and burned sugar to an acceptable level.

Around noon, there was a flurry of activity as four more victims were rushed into the burn ward. “A liquid fire bomb landed on the wall,” one of the carriers panted as they put down the hand-cart. One of the nurses offered them a ladle full of water. “One poor lad caught most of it, he died immediately. These four were secondary.”

They didn’t look secondary to Windblade’s eye. Two of them were ‘lads,’ wearing the uniform of the wall couriers. Burns marked their arms and legs, but not the torso, not yet. The other two were older, one with a still-smoking burn on their face and neck, and the other had stumps for hands. 

Windblade’s stomach rolled at the sight of the smoking stumps, but she had learned how to control instinctive nausea long ago. 

“Put them on the beds at the end of the ward,” Windblade directed. “Blaze, Ameliorate, focus on our two older patients. Smoking wounds take precedence. Master Mixmaster will ensure you have the right ointment.” The other two could wait for a moment as long as they were cut out of their clothes and treated with the right ointment. Gilt, the remaining nurse, could do that and Windblade would go assist Blaze and Ameliorate. 

The two older patients were in terrible pain as Windblade assisted the two burn nurses. The ointment could soothe wounds as it smothered what still burned, but it was not a painkilling ointment. Anything that wasn’t the current ointment could burn if they came into contact with liquid fire, and even though pain racked the patients, she wouldn’t let them be in further danger.

As she struggled with the patients to keep them down long enough for Blaze and Ameliorate to cut off their clothes and treat the burns, she hoped Starscream was having an easier time than she was.

\--

Starscream was not, in fact, having an easier time than anyone else. Iacon did not have the resources to have more than forty horses, used primarily by the City Guard and palace couriers. He and Windblade had their own mounts, and Caminus had supplied the city with ten mares as part of Windblade’s dowry (apparently to help with a breeding program or some such), but it meant that his soldiers and himself fought on foot.

The Autobots were slightly better off, but not by much. Horses weren’t used in this kind of melee; no one would waste good horseflesh on a stabbing mass of chaos. 

Starscream still held onto his shield, although his sword was more useful. An Autobot rushed him with an axe, and Starscream stepped one step off the side and tripped the Autobot. Before they could turn over or go after his ankles, Starscream ran them through. 

An arrow hissed over his shoulder and ripped the top of his robe, but it didn’t actually touch him. Starscream whirled and pushed magic at the archer, who promptly toppled over. In the air above the battle, Thundercracker was manipulating the air to throw up loose dust. It was working against the line of Autobot archers but wasn’t doing much otherwise. 

He was sweating, but the whirling dust caught on it instead of running into his eyes. He had the sense of something about to come down onto his head, and he stepped forward and turned on the ball of his foot to find that his instincts were right, and another Autobot had been lifting a stave over their head to strike him. They weren’t expecting his speed and Starscream flicked his sword up and over and slit the Autobot’s throat. Hot blood sprayed his face, but he had known that was coming and closed his eyes to protect them.

He was tired, with the kind of exhaustion that burned at the core of him. His sword was heavy, and the reek of burning sugar made him cough. He wanted the day to be over. Too many liquid fire bombs, too many dead bodies, and altogether too much noise. The soil was damp with spilled blood.

Maybe this is what the land needs, he thought without humor as he dodged another sword strike and caught the edge of the enemy sword on the damned shield. A sacrifice of blood. He hoped that the Prime of Battles would accept the sacrifice so they could get some work done, please.

The sun was setting. Starscream’s opponent had maneuvered him so that the light shone directly in his eyes, and Starscream couldn’t see where the attack was going to come from.

Then a pair of hands shoved Starscream to the ground, removing the light from his eyes and Starscream pushed the sword up so that his attacker rammed themselves onto it.

It was a mess, but Starscream wanted to know who had pushed him. He looked around as he got back to his feet, but no one was nearby. A shadow flickered at the corner of his vision, and when he glanced at it, it flickered almost like a wink and was gone.  Before Starscream could do anything with it, he heard the call for the Autobots to fall back. “Thank Primus,” he grunted as he wiped his sword on the fallen Autobot’s coat. “‘Bought damn time.”

He made sure all of his people got through the gates before he followed. He knew that Thundercracker was watching their retreat into the city from above with his archers, but he hadn’t survived this long by playing a fool. 

“Casualties?” he rasped to Captain Barricade once he was on the other side of the wall. His throat was caked with dust, and without a word, Captain Barricade handed him a water bottle.

Checking it for poison was reflex. When his magic pinged it as clear, he unscrewed the top and used the first mouthful to swish and spit. Once his mouth was mostly clean, he took a healthy gulp.

“Better than was anticipated,” Captain Barricade told him. “One of the liquid fire bombs managed to explode on the wall, but only six were impacted. Two died immediately, and the other four went to the hospital on Red Alert’s orders.”

“And the rest?”

“Arrow and stab wounds. One was bludgeoned in the head with a mace. We lost her immediately.”

Starscream winced. Death by mace to the head wasn’t pleasant but it was fast. “How many?”

Captain Barricade’s eyes slid sideways. “It depends on the final tally from Red Alert and Hook--.”

“How. Many?”

“About forty, sir, presuming no more injured die. We’ve got over three hundred injured, though, and a hundred of those are critically.”

Not bad, Starscream had to admit silently. It could have been worse. He guessed--though Ravage would no doubt verify or correct him later--that they had killed more than been killed, which was always where he would rather be. “I want to see Red Alert, and then I need to see Hook.”

“Yes, sir!”

Red Alert’s mobile hospital was beginning to lose the crowds that gave it the undeniable smell of blood, sweat, and vomit. Several beds were still holding the injured, although the ones who could walk were being sent in pairs back up to the city. Red Alert herself was checking patients against a book, and she didn’t acknowledge Starscream as he came close. “Hotspur, you’re fine. Your cuts have been stitched and you can go home.”

“But lady,” Hotspur began to protest.

“I’m not a lady,” Red Alert snapped.

“M’partner will fuss and make it right uncomfortable!”

“If you’re strong enough to face the Autobots, you’re strong enough to go home and face your partner. Don’t argue. Just go.”

Regret etched in every line of their body, Hotspur got to their feet and loped away. Red Alert turned to him. “Too many people are taking up beds when they can just _go home_.” Her eyes looked him over. “Good, you didn’t injure yourself.”

Red Alert was talking in short bursts. It sounded angry, but spending quarantine with her had taught him something of her habits. “How much sleep did you get last night?”

She scowled at him instead of answering. “Hook set up his protocols for a reason,” he pointed out. His own tiredness weighed on him, but it was nice to have a valid target for the irritation that came with the tired. “You need to rest.”

“And who will manage this lot if I do?” Red Alert’s hand gesture toward the full makeshift ward was more like a stab. 

They needed more healers, but the recruitment issue belonged to when they were no longer at war. “I’m going up to the hospital,” he told her, “and I’ll send some people to relieve you. You must rest.” He caught and held her eyes, and he saw that she was ashamed. Good. “If you go down, then who manages them?”

“I don’t like you,” Red Alert said.

“Good,” Starscream said shortly. “You’ll accept this, then.” They stared each other down until Red Alert sighed. 

“I need a full shift’s worth of nurses. Hook will know what that means.”

Starscream nodded. “And supplies?”

“Supplies we’re managing,” Red Alert replied. “Although if the Camiens hadn’t supplied us, I’d shudder to think...well, that doesn’t matter.” She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. Everyone was tired. War did that. Anyone who thought battle was glorious had never stood where Starscream did, surrounded by the screams and moans of the dying with the stench of injury, liquid fire, and death invading his nose. 

“You can tell me ‘thank you’ later,” he said.

Red Alert made a face at him. They got along well after quarantine. Starscream flashed her the smuggest smirk he could conjure before he turned and went up and back into his city.

He passed several of his people en route to the hospital. When he reached the hospital complex, he turned away from the front door to go to the side entrance. A nurse was unsurprised to see him--he had done the same walkthrough for the past few days of physical battle--and he was given a robe, a mask, and a pair of gloves before he entered the wards properly.

The injured that required more attention than Red Alert could spare had been sent on to the hospital in a trickle throughout the day. Starscream was grateful that the only injury he had sustained was yesterday’s upper arm cut. No doubt it didn’t help with why his arms felt so heavy after a day of battle, but it did mean he didn’t have to take up any of the healers’ time.

Visiting the wounded was one of the few habits Starscream adopted from Megatron. Megatron had disliked the mix of blood, vomit, sweat, and other fluids, but he had shouldered aside his disdain to thank his soldiers for getting injured in his name. It was one of the reasons why the foot soldiers and lower-ranked officers had been so rabidly loyal to Megatron. The higher-ranking officers knew the manipulation for what it was, but even they could be charmed by Megatron holding their hand and reciting ridiculous poetry to distract them from whatever healing they were going through.

Starscream didn’t go so far as to thank his soldiers--they were fighting for their home--but he acknowledged their sacrifice. It was the most honesty he could give them, and he saw how they appreciated it. 

He left the burn ward for last. He had to change his robes and tug his hair under a linen cap to prevent as much transfer as he could, and that was only worth it if it was the last thing he had to do before retiring for the night. Inside the ward, he saw twenty beds, all filled, but six of them had sheets covering the corpses. Starscream stopped to swallow hard at the sight. Liquid fire was one of the more deadly tools of war. He knew that.

On the the last bed at the end of the ward, there was a young one, no more than sixteen, weeping and clutching at Windblade. Windblade allowed it, and Starscream took a step forward in case the patient needed to be restrained, but Mixmaster popped up next to him and shook her head. “She’s not in any danger.”

“What’s going on?”

“It was one of the four injured that came in earlier,” Mixmaster said quietly. “We looked after those still smoking, but it turned out that your two wall couriers who got splashed with liquid fire had breathed it in. We just hadn’t seen it. His friend died about half an hour ago. This one doesn’t have much longer.”

Starscream swallowed again. He approached Windblade on silent feet as she held the sobbing child. “I’m not ready to die,” the child cried. “And I lost my best friend!”

Windblade held the child as they wept against her hospital robe. When Starscream got within arm’s reach, Windblade’s eyes flicked over him, identified he was not a threat, and promptly ignored him. Starscream had seen Mau perform that same kind of situational scan, and if there wasn’t a child dying in her arms, he would have been amused. 

The child stopped to cough, and what erupted from their mouth could not be called ‘mucus.’ Generously, it could be termed ‘sludge.’ Windblade didn’t even blink as the black...stuff landed on her robe. She rubbed the child’s back as they hacked until it seemed like they lost the ability to breathe. 

Windblade’s magic slid from her hand into the lungs of the child, soothing the cough. It didn’t do much against anything else, but when Starscream examined the child with his own magic, he saw that there was nothing that could be done. The damage was too great. 

It would not be immediate, but the child was going to die.

The child breathed a little easier, and Windblade resettled them. Starscream drew closer. There was a purpose to her tableau, even if he couldn’t see it yet. 

“I’ll help you sleep,” she told the child gently. “Sleep will help.”

The child looked up at her. “Will it take away--?” They started to cough again.

“Yes,” Windblade said. She hesitated, and then said, “When you wake up, there won’t be any pain. There won’t be pain ever again.”

The child looked younger and younger as Windblade talked. “Your family--your parents--will be waiting for you on the other side,” she said. “You won’t be alone. Your friends will be there too. All of the pain and fear of this life will be gone in an instant. The Well will welcome you.”

“Promise?” the child muttered, their words slurring as Windblade worked sleeping magic on them.

“I promise.” Windblade cupped the back of the child’s head as the child fell asleep entirely. Starscream watched the thin strands of her magic enter the body of the child. Their chest rose and fell as Windblade did--whatever she was doing, and then...then the chest did not rise again.

A stillness came over the ward as the rest of the living patients detected a death. Starscream blinked as he saw a bright blue flash and then it too disappeared. Windblade held the child for another few minutes, and then she rose. 

Mixmaster stepped forward. “I’ll take care of him,” she said to Windblade. 

Windblade nodded. She was trembling, and before he could say anything, she left the ward almost at a run. Starscream turned to follow her, but Mixmaster grabbed his elbow. “Don’t. This is the fourth one she’s done that for.”

“Fourth?”

Mixmaster shrugged. “They couldn’t be helped, not even by Hook or Red Alert, but their conditions would’ve made them linger for days in agony. She gave them the mercy stroke. Besides,” Mixmaster looked at him. “We needed the beds.”

“I find it hard to believe that was her reasoning,” Starscream remarked. Four? The mercy stroke? “Did she do that for all of them?”

“Do what?”

“The--holding, the comforting.”

“Yes,” Mixmaster said reluctantly. “I told her it wasn’t necessary, but she wouldn’t let them go to the Well without experiencing one last bit of love and affection. Said life was too hard to let death be hard too.”

“She shouldn’t have to do that,” he said. 

Mixmaster didn’t hear him. “The problem is is that every one she takes care of like that, she has to run outside and purge. I’m not sure why. A healer like what Hook says she is shouldn’t be so disgusted by death by now.”

“It wasn’t the death,” Starscream said.

Was Mixmaster selectively choosing to listen? She continued to ignore him as she added, “Still, she does good work, and she doesn’t flinch at the gross stuff. She did so much debridement, it was unbelievable.”

There was a roaring in Starscream’s ears as the thought kept repeating it. She shouldn’t have to do that. She shouldn’t have to do that.

His people shouldn’t have to fight and bleed and die to defend themselves and their home. The healers shouldn’t have to bicker over who deserved supplies and bed and who could be sent home for the moment. His granaries shouldn’t be rationing out supplies, trying to keep enough food to feed everyone while keeping seed for the coming spring. 

It shouldn’t--they shouldn’t--he shouldnt’t--

There was a loud cracking noise, so loud even Mixmaster heard it, and then Starscream collapsed. His chest ached like there was a piece of unfinished wood pulling itself out of his heart and lungs. 

“My lord?!”

And just like that, the moment was gone, but Starscream knew what he was feeling. Anger was a comfort, but the helplessness was new. When did he last felt helpless? He couldn’t--no, he wouldn’t remember. It would bring back too many memories.

For the first time, he was aware that he felt stifled and restless, so that answered the other question. His curse was still in place, but it was breaking. Slowly.

“My lord, I should--.”

“I’m fine,” he told Mixmaster shortly. “I need to find the princess.”

“She’ll be in the inner courtyard.” Mixmaster was used to him and didn’t argue. “The quiet one, away from the patient wards.”

Of course. If she was going to purge, why do it where patients could see her? He nodded at Mixmaster and left the ward.

He found her where Mixmaster said he would, but she wasn’t purging. Instead, she had streaks of fire running down her face with her hands pressed to her mouth with such violence he was surprised she wasn't bruising herself. It did do one thing--it kept her sobs inaudible.

He had to blink at the fire running down her face. He had seen her cry before, but this was something else. 

When she saw him, her eyes widened. She dropped her hands away from her mouth to hiss, “What do you want?”

He probably deserved that. He chose to ignore it instead and moved closer to her. Her magic was swirling around her and he could taste fear, despair, helplessness, and...anger. Everything he was feeling. Were they mirroring each other? Primus, he hoped not.

He turned her anger over in his mind as she waited for his answer. She had been angry before, but this anger had edges to it. He was impressed. She always seemed so cool and unruffled that he didn’t think she had a temper worth bothering about. So this was what she was like when she came untethered from those damn Temple teachings. 

“Mixmaster told me you lost four.”

“We lost six. I soothed four.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” The sarcasm was easy, but he managed it. He was trying to break through that wall of anger, not make it stronger. “I thought you didn’t kill with your magic.”

“Would you have rather I smothered them with a pillow?” she snapped. “No, it wasn’t killing. It was a release--a release from pain and needless agony. Killing means...it means something else.”

“Whatever you need to justify it for yourself,” he shrugged. 

Her anger sharpened, and then she controlled it. The anger pulled away and out of the emotional miasma surrounding her. The last of the fire-tears dripped onto the courtyard stone before real tears washed her face clean of the soot-streaks. “What do you want, Starscream?” She sounded so tired. 

His heart gave another warning twinge at the realization. He winced and rubbed his chest before he was aware of what he was doing. 

Uncharacteristically, Windblade did not respond to his sign of pain. Instead she waited.

Finally, he offered her one of the handkerchiefs that had managed to survive a day’s battle. “Wipe your face,” he said. 

She took the square of cotton--like hell would he have something as uncomfortable as linen--and brushed off the remaining soot. She was still shaking, so maybe she had vomited before she gave in to her emotions. An instinct he had forgotten propelled him to stand in front of her, and slowly--so that she would know what he was doing--he pulled her into his chest. She stood like that for a moment, just long enough for him to feel awkward and wonder what the hell his instincts were up to, and then she buried her face into his chest and wrapped her arms around him. What did he do next? 

A dim memory of his mother floated up from the prison he kept them in, a memory of a soft hand stroking his curls after a nightmare. He lifted his left hand and gently ran it over the curve of Windblade’s skull and down her neck. He kept petting her until she stopped shaking, and then she pushed him away slightly.

“Sorry,” she exhaled.

“Don’t,” he said. “Mixmaster told me what you did. You don’t have to apologize today.”

If she had been in a normal mood, she might have contested that playfully, but there was no play in her. He couldn’t blame her. “Solus bless me, I hate losing children,” she confessed. “I did my best, but there was just--.”

“Don’t,” he repeated. “Don’t second-guess yourself. You did the best you could. No one can ask you for more.”

She swallowed. “The rest of them are on the mend. The worst needs five days, maybe a week, of treatment, but they’ll all live. They’ll even get to keep their limbs, mostly.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. “Then if they’re on the mend, you can pass their care along to the night nurses and you can get some rest.”

She leaned into his hold briefly, and then they unwound to walk back from the hospital up to the palace. Windblade left Mixmaster with a promise to return the following morning, and up the hill they went.

Chromia met them at the gates and took Windblade away. Starscream followed the duo, dreaming of a hot bath and a meal before going to bed, but his happy fantasy was interrupted by the presence of Bumblebee in front of him.

Starscream frowned. Bumblebee had played ‘least-in-sight’ for the past few weeks. In better, more rested, moods, Starscream couldn’t blame him. Autobots put a lot more stock on loyalty than Decepticons ever did. Loyalty was for Megatron and your life, and you only treated anyone else with loyalty provided they helped in the continuation of those two goals. Autobots were more close-knit. It must be killing Bumblebee to see his brethren fighting the neutral survivors just outside the city gates.

“What.”

“There’s something you need to see,” Bumblebee said. “Well, hear. I mean. Ravage has her report.”

Starscream closed his eyes and wished he was sleeping. “Ravage has a report.”

“And I have commentary. It’s important.”

“It had better be,” Starscream warned. “I’m testy when I’m exhausted.”

“You mean you’re not testy normally?” 

“Not in the mood, Autobot,” Starscream growled. 

Bumblebee subsided. His cane made a tapping noise on the stone floor, and Starscream glanced at it as he tried to remember what caused Bumblebee’s leg injury in the first place.  It wasn’t him, he remembered that much. The last stand for Iacon in 1024…?

“1022,” Bumblebee said. Starscream blinked as Bumblebee nodded toward his leg. “Small skirmish outside Altihex. I was riding--poorly--and an archer nailed my leg to my horse. The poor beast panicked and utterly ruined my leg before we were able to calm it down enough to remove the arrow.”

Oh, right. And Bumblebee was confined to behind the lines ever after. Too valuable a strategist to retire completely. “I’m sorry,” Starscream said.

Bumblebee froze. “W-what?”

Starscream gestured to it. “My intended has informed me more about wound care than I ever wanted to know. Recovering from that must have been painful and long. I’m sorry.”

Bumblebee looked spooked, but before there was anything else to say, they were in the meeting room. Ravage was curled into a chair, shadows under her eyes, and Ultra Magnus was standing and looking out the window. Everyone reset as he entered the room, and he found a seat to flop into--gracefully. “What.”

“Prowl has been relieved of duty,” Ravage said. “Prime has taken over.”

Starscream sat upright. “What.”

“According to my spies,” Ravage said, “Prowl was relieved of duty as a response to letting Springer escape. Springer had been arrested on suspicion of collusion and treason. A few days after that, Springer vanished along with the rest of the Wreckers, and a good chunk of the army too. We’re facing about four thousand.”

Four thousand was better than seven thousand, but… “Who’s left?” Starscream asked.

“The people who hate you and always will,” Ravage gave him her most sarcastic look. “Gotta say, your number one talent seems to be making enemies. You’ve got so many you don’t even know all of their names.”

“They’ll run out of supplies eventually,” Ultra Magnus rumbled. “But this Prime is so insane that he might not care.”

“Do revenants need to eat?” Starscream asked. 

“It is...unclear,” Ravage said reluctantly. “It’s hard to have my spies trail him. They hate him on sight.”

Starscream, who knew the types Ravage recruited to spy for her, nodded. It wasn’t worth the argument. “What else?” he sighed as he poured himself a cup of tea. “Any other bad news I should know about?”

Bumblebee, Ravage, and Ultra Magnus exchanged looks. Starscream sat up. He wasn’t going to bed any time soon.

He was saved from their ramblings when an explosion rocked the air. Ravage lifted her head and angled it, and Starscream pretended not to notice how one ear flicked into a cat ear. “It’s a big explosion,” she said after a moment. “But it’s not here.”

Starscream made an annoyed noise and heaved himself out of his chair. “Well then. Let’s go see what it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mau is a [Himalayan cat.](https://t2.ea.ltmcdn.com/en/images/3/4/0/img_caring_for_a_himalayan_cat_1043_600.jpg) I had initially decided on Siamese, since a talking, active cat named 'Cat' in Mandarin was only appropriate, but the more I thought about it, the more I wanted a cat who could be extremely lazy, but is also affectionate and super high-maintenance. Thus, Mau the Himalayan Cat was born. 
> 
> Victorion is based on the [Florida Panther.](https://www.fws.gov/uploadedImages/Region_4/NWRS/Zone_2/Southwest_Florida_Gulf_Refuges_Complex/Florida_Panther/Images/Panther%20-%20Profile.jpg) I know it's also considered a puma, a mountain lion, and generic American panther, but what can I say, I grew up in Florida and it can be hell (at times literally--don't go to rural Florida at night if you're a POC), but our wildlife can be gr8.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end is here. Thank you for all your comments, it really does mean the world to me. 
> 
> Warnings for violence and murder, hinting of torture and gore.
> 
> Also, Starscream makes a pun here that made me cackle when I wrote it, so I kept it in. You're welcome.

CHAPTER 27: SKYFALL, PART 1

* * *

_March 24, 1037_   
_Iacon Plains_

“So at this rate,” the quartermaster--what was his name? It didn’t matter, “we’re on track for a week at our current ration rate, but then we’ll have to go down by halves for the next week, and then the week after next we’ll be out completely. I recommend that we go down by a quarter now so that halves will last longer.”

Prme waved a hand. “We won’t besieging the city that long.”

“But, sir--even if the siege fails, we’ll still need to get home,” the quartermaster stammered. 

Prime raised a brow. “You are expecting the siege to fail?”

The quartermaster began to splutter, and Prime sighed. In the old days, quartermasters had spine and moreover, a hand in the black market. No army of his ever went unfed. “Begone,” he dismissed.

“You should be more polite to your suppliers,” Prowl said from his seat on the corner. He wasn’t chained, a bit of respect to his former position, but Prime was beginning to wish Prowl was. He had forgotten how dangerous Prowl could be. At some point, that kind of mistake would be fatal, if he could even die twice. 

“Why? It’s not like he’s succeeding,” Prime looked down at the map of the city. It was outdated, to judge from the exterior wall. 

“He’s an integral part of making the army cohesive,” Prowl said. “This is what you never understood. You think an army is like a body, taking orders from the head.”

Prime looked up. “Is it not?”

“An army is more like a roof held up with pillars. The roof keeps the interior dry, but the pillars keep the roof up. You cannot win by knocking down the pillars.”

“Says the person who lost over half the army,” Prime said pointedly. “So I don’t really think you should--.”

The air cracked and boomed as a massive wave of heat slammed into them. Prime fell to his knees as his ears rang. “Just what was that?” he roared. 

Whatever answer there was was lost in the secondary explosion, and Prime clambered to his feet, swearing the air blue. He was going to find out who was responsible, and then he was going to kill them.

\--

_ Earlier  
Iacon _

“You need rest,” Chromia reminded her. “You got barely any sleep last night and tonight you’re--,” her mouth twisted. Windblade didn’t need the reminder of how toxic the combination of magical and emotional exhaustion could be.

“I’m not running low,” Windblade said. “On magic, I mean. I’m as strong as I ever am.”

“Emotionally,” Chromia said pointedly.

Windblade sighed and unpinned her hair. It fell down her back in a solid mass, and she took a comb to the bottom ends with grim determination. At least she didn’t need to worry about changing her robes. She had changed out of her smeared and stained healer’s robes when she had entered her room, and she was in far more comfortable robes than the ones that smelled of blood and cooked flesh. “I need some time where I don’t have to cater or take care of anyone,” she said as she worked the comb through one knot. “To resettle. I’ll know how exhausted I am once I have some time to calm down.”

Chromia didn’t trust her, but she had a point. Both of them had a tendency to absorb other people's’ irritation and nerves, and they had learned to give themselves a buffer of time to sort out if it was their needs or the people around them. “I’ll be in the front parlor,” Chromia warned her. “If you try to sneak out, you have to get past me.”

Windblade stopped fighting with her hair to give Chromia a small smile. “I can’t fool you, bear. I know better than that.”

“Good.” Chromia stooped and kissed Windblade’s forehead. “Don’t try too hard. You _will_ need sleep at some point tonight.”

Windblade’s small smile broadened. “I know,” she said. 

Once Chromia left the room to ‘rest her eyes’ in Windblade’s front parlor, Windblade put down her comb so that she could put her head in her hands. The blend of anger, fear, despair, and utter helplessness that Starscream--Starscream!--had picked up on hadn’t gone away since she left the hospital, merely fell down to a manageable level. 

Windblade typically tried not to give into anger. It wasn’t as useful as other emotions, but when she tried to get perspective, her anger tripped her up until the only thing she could do was sit with it.

She was angry at the Autobots. That had built since she was their ‘guest’ and peaked during the outbreak of the Autobot bleeds, but the anger at the Autobots since...She poked it mentally and realized that that anger had melted into despair. Their actions, from the weaponization of a disease to the use of liquid fire, had intellectual underpinnings, but Windblade refused to acknowledge them. They had all been one people once, before classism and prejudice had torn them apart. From what little Windblade understood of what Cybertron had been before, even the Autobots hadn’t liked the Senate and their actions. 15 years of civil war made the gulf between the Autobots and the other survivors, what, insurmountable? She didn’t think that was it.

No, the lion’s share of her anger was reserved for Primus. He could have stopped this at any time. Did free will mean removing himself entirely from his children’s affairs? Why had he allowed Primes without being tested? And his punishment of Nova Prime had gone further than it ever should have. Why did she have to clean his mess?

Windblade stared blankly into the mirror. Why was it _her_? Why did this place and time require her magic when it hadn’t been needed before?

_It has always been needed._ Solus appeared behind Windblade in the mirror. _But no one was willing to admit that until now, when the lack is so stark. They would prefer to believe that life comes on its own, but you know better._ Solus’ eyes shone gold in the mirror. _Life always begins in blood--and fire._

Windblade picked her head up off her vanity with a start. When did she fall asleep? The light outside her window hadn’t changed, so perhaps it had only been a few minutes. Those few minutes made a difference, though. Energy roared through her veins and banished her exhaustion, at least for the moment.

She knew what to do.

“Chromia, get up. There’s something we have to do.” It was too important to change clothes--anything. Starscream was still in his meeting, because she hadn’t heard him enter his rooms. If she was going to get out to the wall without being stopped, she had to do it then. 

Chromia didn’t argue. She recognized the set of Windblade’s jaw. When Windblade was determined, she could upset the world and not give a damn. They left her rooms silently with Chromia in the lead--no one would question Marissa’s second-in-command. 

Chromia found them mounts, and the patter of the horses’ hooves on the stony roads and streets were striking in that there was no competition for noise. Everyone in the city retired when the soldiers did, and Windblade saw few candles in the windows as they passed. It was unnatural for a city to be so quiet.

She ached for Metroplex. Cities survived because their people did. Iacon’s people were frightened and cold, so Metroplex had to be feeling that as well. She wanted better for them--for Metroplex and Iacon. Cities should be places of light and noise, not this huddled mass awaiting the executioner’s stroke. 

Chromia distracted the guards at the inner gate long enough for Windblade to slip through. She didn’t want them to be preoccupied with protecting her instead of watching for assassins and saboteurs, so the less they saw her, the better. Chromia caught up with her when she was halfway to the outer wall. “What exactly will we be doing here?”

“Do you really want the answer?”

Chromia hesitated. “Will you be putting yourself in harm’s way?”

“That’s always a possibility,” Windblade said vaguely. “But not intentionally.”

“Oh, that makes me feel better,” Chromia muttered. 

“When I go up to the wall, keep the guards off me. I can’t guarantee they’ll be safe if they bother me while I’m working.” Windblade twiddled her fingers so that Chromia knew what Windblade meant by ‘working.’ “I’m trying something. I hope it will be successful.”

“You’re not a war witch,” Chromia warned. “Don’t let that--don’t let him try to talk you into being one. You belong to life.”

“I know I’m not,” Windblade promised. “But these are my people too.”

Chromia’s expression in the torchlight made it clear what she thought of that. Windblade sighed and ignored her as she dismounted. It was a different officer on duty than Captain Barricade, which was good. She had been starting to suspect that the poor officer almost never got any sleep. The officer saw her and started forward--her white tattooes were livid in the half-light supplied by torches, and all of Starscream’s officers knew her by sight by now--but Chromia got between them. Windblade passed them both and ascended the stairs as she pulled out a piece of thread from her pocket. 

Strictly speaking, she was no good with thread magic. The threads liked her too much to work together, but when it was a single thread, she could do better. She reached out and pinched some of the fire from the first torch she passed and fed it along her thread. Instead of going up in smoke, like thread would normally, the silk twisted in her fingers and then took on a steady reddish glow. She stopped in the middle of the wall, ignoring the shouts and steps of the soldiers stationed there, and she muttered to herself, “Guard me within a circle of silk and fire.” As she knotted the thread’s ends together, the protection spell came up in a circle of glowing light. It made the air around it waver with heat, and the soldiers who had been approaching her fell back.

Good. She wouldn’t be disturbed. 

The silk circle went on the floor of the wall to ground the protective magic (literally), and Windblade sat down. Her legs were folded underneath her so that she was seated on the heels of her feet, and she closed her eyes. Certain magics were easier when she allowed her magic to see for her.

The torch that was tucked against the wall two crenellations away had tasted liquid fire when the bomb had exploded earlier. Its flame flickered wildly and burned a brighter yellow than its fellows. It had tasted devouring magic and hadn’t burned through it yet. 

She needed that. She held out a hand and the torch’s flame left its home to cross her circle and land in her hand. It fought against the confines of its’ own flame. It wanted to consume and destroy, a side-effect of liquid fire. 

It could identify where the Autobots kept their liquid fire. It strained to be part of it, to be part of one glorious flare before dying. Life and death didn’t make much sense to fire. As long as it ‘lived’, it was also dying. 

The Autobots kept their liquid fire in two locations. She wasn’t surprised, but their security procedures made what she needed to do easier. She took in a breath, about to ask the Autobot horses for help, but then she hesitated. If they helped her, they would be at risk. She wouldn’t kill horses if she could help it. Their riders had chosen where they were; the horses hadn’t. 

Instead, she directed her magic to where the stables were. The horses had felt her magic before, and they didn’t shy away from her as she explored their tethers. It was leather, and old--one touch of heat and the tethers fell away. The horses shook off their bridles; the bridles were meant for holding, not riding, so without the bit the horses could free themselves.

She warned them that it was going to get very loud and noisy. Horses, never exactly ‘stable’ creatures when it came to, well, anything, could stampede or worse if they were surprised. The explosions, she promised, would cover their escape until it didn’t make any sense for their people to run after them.

Horses didn’t have to like war either, even if they were trained for it.

A few of them, the ones who had been trained to fight loyally for their riders, might have stayed but the Prime’s presence unnerved them. A large explosion would take their nervousness and turn it into flat panic. They would be gone before the Autobots realized all of their mounts--and the oxen, she had to remember to free the oxen--would be gone. Those animals were the best security for their exit when their siege failed. Without them, morale would plummet and deprive them of a food source if they decided to prolong their siege past its natural limits. 

Perhaps it was cruel, but the Autobots deserved some.

She took a quick moment to breathe as she honed in on the two storage locations for liquid fire. She had never wreaked destruction on so massive a scale. There were dampening spells on the tents containing the jars of liquid fire, and no wonder, but she could burn away those spells with the force of her magical aura. 

Did she really want to do this? Was this something Solus would have done?

She swallowed and then resolved her emotions. She could control the flames once they were burning. She would not allow a firestorm. Iacon had to be free of the siege, and this was a good way--the best way--to do it. Liquid fire was meant to be their best weapon, and if she removed it, then they lost that leverage. Also, if she removed it, they would realize (if they hadn’t already) that Iacon had powerful magics at its disposal.

“For Metroplex,” she whispered, “for Iacon.” 

And she let her magic go.

The flame in her hand flared as the first of the two holding sites exploded, and then the second. Heat and the scent of burning sugar slammed into everyone on the wall, and Windblade’s ears rang. Despite the warning, the horses panicked and ran out of the camp as fast as they could go, the thundering of their hooves covered by the roar of the flames. 

Even the immediate area around the holding sites were burning--no one was such a fool as to sleep near a volatile explosive, but it looked as though they had stored weapons and ammunition near their ultimate weapon. Good luck firing burning bows with ash for arrows, Windblade thought.

The fire inside the defensive wards collapsed the protective spells. Windblade stood and lobbed the fire in her hand at the remaining siege towers. The flame split into two as it approached the two siege towers, and both burst into flame upon contact. 

Windblade’s ears were still ringing, but that would fade. She watched the flames critically and kept them from reaching fingers deeper into the camp. She would destroy their supplies, but she was not a soldier. She wouldn’t kill them.

The reek of burning sugar grew until she wanted to retch. Would she ever be able to eat sugar-sweetened things again? Only Solus knew. 

As the combustible gel burned out, the flames died abruptly with nothing else to feed them. It was very dramatic, and made her point to everyone. She could have let the flames go until they had consumed everything, but she hadn’t. That the Autobots still lived was proof of her restraint. If they had any sense remaining, they would leave. 

With a sigh--holding fire back when it wanted nothing more than to consume was tiring--she took down her protection. Her face felt dry and cracked, but that was the combination of fire and ash. She couldn’t wipe her face until she got back to her rooms, otherwise, the ash would be ground into her skin and even possibly her eyes. 

She turned to walk off the wall and was faced with the people she most did not want to see: Starscream, who was smirking like she had given him the world’s biggest present (maybe, she thought sourly, if she managed to bring back the rain like she was supposed to she might even get a smile!), Ultra Magnus, who looked startled, Ravage, who was smirking like Starscream, and Thundercracker, who was clearly impressed. “What,” she said.

“I should tell you that you’re useless more often,” Starscream said, “it makes you do very interesting things.”

She scowled at him. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“I’ll claim it anyway,” he said cheerfully as he slung an arm around her neck. “You may have just ended the siege for us.”

“Oh good,” she said moodily. “Can I go to bed now?”

He kissed her cheek, and she ignored how her stomach flipped at the casual affection. “Just a few questions if you don’t mind, my dear.” He turned her to face his advisors, and her stomach knotted. “What exactly did you destroy? I can guess, but I’d like the confirmation.”

His nearness wasn’t helping her conflicted emotions. “The liquid fire,” she said in as curt a tone she could manage. She was only irritated with Starscream. There was no reason to be rude to anyone else. “I found where they were keeping it and I destroyed it.” She nodded toward Ravage. “Your spies could never have gotten so close and gotten away unscathed. This was easier.”

“Why?” Starscream asked.

Windblade glared up at him. He couldn’t possibly be that dense. “To prevent more children dying,” she snapped. 

If he kept looking at her like she was the sun, she would hit him. He didn’t mean it, that was the worst part. His affection was chancy and mutable. If she could rely on him--she cut off that thought at the root. He would never be reliable, except perhaps in his unreliability.

“Are we done now?” she said. “I’d like to go to bed.”

Starscream let her go. Thank Solus. “Go, my dear. Whatever else you can tell us, you can tell us in the morning.” 

She took her chance to escape. She wasn’t going to explain to him or anyone else that she couldn’t stand to have another child die in her arms. That would be too much, and she deserved to keep her secrets.

\--

_ Iacon Plains _

Prime held onto his temper, barely, as he looked at the wreckage of what had been their stockpile of liquid fire and weaponry. “Who did this?” he demanded.

The quartermaster quavered visibly. “No one saw.”

Prime whirled on the quartermaster. “This type of explosion doesn’t just happen. It had to be triggered!”

“No one is disagreeing with that, sir,” the quartermaster said, “but no one saw it.” He gulped. “Also, the horses have fled.”

“Yes, I saw that,” Prime gritted. “The tracks were very noticeable.”

How the horses had gotten free was another matter, but it was trifling. Frightened horses had feats of strength few could match, and the explosions would have terrified them utterly. “Do we have any liquid fire left?”

The quartermaster hesitated and then shook his head. “It’s all gone, in both stockpiles. And the weapons stored near it are also…”

“Destroyed. Yes. I understand.” Prime fought to control his temper. It wasn’t the quartermaster’s fault, he lectured himself. It wasn’t the quartermaster who laid the wards. Do not kill the quartermaster. “Go,” he said as he continued to grapple with his kneejerk response. If the quartermaster wasn’t present, he couldn’t be killed.

So Prime was left alone in the wreckage of the best weapons the Autobots could have had and used against Starscream and his pawns, and he stewed.

\--

_ March 25, 1037  
Iacon _

Starscream hid a jaw-cracking yawn behind one hand as he opened the door to his office. By all rights, he should be in bed, sleeping the sleep of a ruler whose city would soon no longer be under siege, but if the Autobot army had acted with any sort of sense, the situation would never have gotten to where it was. He needed to go over reports to build a working picture before he could retire. 

He lit the candles with a snap of his fingers. The candlelight illuminated the small clock he kept there, and he rolled his eyes in consternation at it. It was stupidly early in the morning, and his chair was deliberately comfortable. Fighting his exhaustion was a losing battle.

There was a quick one-two knock at the door, and he looked up when Ravage entered. Her knocking methodology was less of a request to enter and more of a warning she was coming in. She grinned at him as she closed the door. “Good news.”

“The Autobots are retreating?” he mumbled as he rubbed his eyes.

“Not yet.” She tossed him a small knitted bag containing--sand?--and he caught it. She gestured for him to throw it back. He did so without enthusiasm. “But still, there’s good news.”

“Enlighten me,” he said with an attempt of his usual sarcasm. It was ruined by a yawn. Primus, he was tired. 

“My spies have gone over the explosion sites.” Correctly interpreting the look on his face, she waved a hand. “No one notices them. Trust me. Anyway, the fire burned in a perfect circle and didn’t go past it. Smoke drifted--no one can control smoke--but the fire itself kept to a defined space.”

He was having trouble keeping up. It wouldn’t normally be a problem, but he had been up for over--too long, and he had the virtue of fighting for ten hours as well. He gestured for Ravage to get on with it.

Ravage tossed him the small ball again. He caught it as she told him, “Fire, according to the immutable laws of the universe, does not keep to a defined space. Even if it’s warded, it will burn in jagged lines. And liquid fire? It consumes magic. It’s part of what makes it so dangerous.”

“Yes,” Starscream muttered, “it can be used to destroy wards and other shield spells.” Despite his mental lag, he could see where Ravage was going and he wished she wouldn’t.

“So the fact your intended was able to burn all of the liquid fire without having it escape her control or have it consume her is nothing short of a miracle.” She sat down on the lone guest chair and tucked her feet under herself. “I forget how powerful she is.”

Starscream made a noise that indicated, he hoped, his willingness to listen to Ravage ramble. Ravage took it as he wanted it. “You hide how powerful you are,” she said, “for lots of reasons, most of which I understand. But her…” Ravage shook her head. “I wonder what the tradition is for kidnapping in Caminus.”

Starscream started. “What?”

Ravage gave him an affectionate look of exasperation. “Right. The South didn’t have that tradition. You had other things, but not that. Why would a noble downplay her abilities unless it put her in danger?”

It was a fair point, but he shook his head at her. “She’s modest.”

“But why?” Ravage persisted. “Nobility doesn’t breed modesty. It might give her more safety on the road if her abilities were publicized.”

“Ask her,” Starscream managed. “She’ll have your answers.”

Ravage peered at him. “Are you sick?”

He looked at her. “I don’t get sick.”

“No, but you do get tired.” Ravage shook her head. “Why are you still awake?”

He patted the pile of reports he had to go through. “I need to read this to present tomorrow’s tactics effectively.” He rested his chin in his hand and tried to keep his eyes open. “There’s no guarantee we’re done.”

Ravage nodded in acknowledgement. “I’ll go through them with you,” she offered, “I got a nap this afternoon, since no one needed me. I’ll help.”

Starscream managed a slight smile. “Thank you.”

\--

_ Iacon Plains _

Prime waited as Prowl’s special operatives slunk into the command tent. Getaway had been happy to rustle all of them up, and they were--with the exception of Getaway and Skids--the dregs of what had once been a fine unit of creative and quick soldiers. Prime wasn’t sure when the decline began, but he knew the decline had hastened under Prowl’s leadership. Prowl should have known that war kept soldiers sharp.

Getaway gave him a nod when all of the operatives had arrived. Prime looked them over with a sharp eye; he counted about thirteen. What a disappointment. 

They quieted as he looked at them. When he was sure he had their attention, he said, “I have a mission for you. It won’t be easy, but the results will be glorious, if you can achieve them.”

The whole sentence was calculated to appeal to their competitiveness. It wasn’t a request, and he didn’t bother phrasing it as such. He just needed them to want it. “You may have noted that we have lost our liquid fire and our siege engines,” he said after a beat. “That is not to say we cannot keep fighting on, because we will, but it occurs to me that there is a better way to do this.” He put his hands in his pockets. “You all are the best of the special operatives. You could sneak into the city and into the palace. Kill Starscream and take his,” harpy, “intended captive, and this would be over, on our terms. We will dictate their surrender and all of you would be recognized as heroes.”

Special Operations were typically reviled by the regular army, for all of the tactics they used to accomplish their goals: poisoning, betrayal, sex, and torture. If they could do something that the regular army could not, something that would give them status and make them proud of their work, they would leap at the chance. 

Prime watched as the fires of ambition lit in their eyes and inwardly smiled. They, the masters of manipulation, were so easy to manipulate in turn. They would get him what he needed, and in return they would hand the victory to the Autobots. Prime would be celebrated, and no one would ever try to control him again because he was _right._

“We’ll need a day or so to get our plans in order,” Getaway said after a bit of furious whispering. “Can we use whatever supplies we have on hand?”

Prime really did smile then. “Take whatever you need.”

\--

_ March 25, 1037  
Iacon _

Windblade rose with the dawn. Iacon was hushed, a city in waiting, and the normal early-morning signs of the city’s population were missing. Even the birds were quiet. Victorion whined when Windblade stroked her head and she buried herself under the blankets as Windblade left them. 

She had seen a similar scenario before: the capital city of Caminus was built over an active fire-mountain, and the city animals knew of a tremor or explosion before its people did. Windblade hadn’t felt the inner heat of such a mountain, but that didn’t mean a tremor couldn’t be on its way.

She dressed quickly. It may have been suicide to go down to Metroplex if a tremor was on its way, but she suspected the imbalance wasn’t natural. He would know. 

After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled the necklace with his acorn over her head. He had imbued it with his magic and told her its time was coming. She would be a fool to disregard him.

The city was starting its usual rituals as she hurried down the stairs to the main courtyard. The palace kitchen had been up for hours, but the guards that staffed the palace were beginning their morning patrols. They nodded to Windblade as she passed.

Metroplex’s door was exactly where she left it, and she slipped through it to descend the stairs. Her awareness of his space had broadened since he had shared some of his water with her, so she didn’t need light to patter down the stairs. When she got to his receiving chamber, she stopped. 

Whatever wrongness had caused the animals of the city to take refuge had affected Metroplex too. His waters were trembling and the lights flickered between colors so quickly she could barely identify them. She knelt to place her hand in the water, and the cool water warmed around her--he knew she was there--but otherwise, he didn’t stabilize.

She swallowed hard. She hadn’t passed her training without learning what a city on the brink of crisis looked like. The question was what to do about it. Had she been at home in Caminus, she would have fellow cityspeakers with her. They would have set up a watch schedule to monitor Caminus for changes and to compare notes about the outside to spikes or falls of Caminus’ behavior. She didn’t have an infrastructure that even remotely compared to that in Iacon. She couldn’t spend that much time away from the hospital, not when her nursing skills were so necessary. 

“What do you need?” she asked Metroplex. “How can I help?”

The waters stilled for one second and then began trembling again, even more furiously than before. His marker in the middle of the spring glowed white, and she sighed internally. He needed her to come to him, but whatever emotional state that was causing his waters to vibrate wouldn’t allow for her typical path. She would have to swim it.

In Caminus, it would have been considered  lèse-majesté, and she was wary about drinking any more of his water when it had such negative effects on her, but her duty to him overruled her misgivings. Please, Solus, don’t let it backfire on her, she prayed as she stripped off her outer robes until she was in her undyed yukata. It was made of cotton, not silk, and the waters wouldn’t damage it. 

The water felt viscous against her skin as she slid into the water. It pushed back against her as she began to swim through it, but when she passed over a warmer spot, the water turned back to its normal thinner consistency, and she wasn’t fighting the waters anymore. Metroplex must have recognized her. 

She pressed her palms on the rock formation in the center of the spring and pulled herself up. The glowing formation flickered when she touched it, and as she settled on it, the light grew to enclose her entirely. The cotton yukata steamed against her skin as the air warmed, and she relaxed. “Tell me,” she coaxed, “what do I need to know?”

Metroplex’s magical voice was a comfort. He was together enough to talk to her. _There comes a time in every conflict where the future becomes clouded_ , he murmured, _and I cannot see. I cannot see what will be. You are important to the lines of the future, but I cannot see how._

Windblade swallowed. “Is that why the city is so still?”

_ The local spirits know it too. If you lose, it will be the end. Revenants spread spiritual pollution. If it goes undefeated, it will lure the return of the Dead One and it will be the end. _

Windblade shivered. “So this isn’t just a battle for Iacon anymore. It’s a battle for the world.” No pressure, then.

As if he had heard her slightly hysterical mental addition, Metroplex’s lights flickered yellow with passing humor. _**You** must do this_ , Metroplex said. _All lines of fate are drawn together into this one knot. I do not see how it will be undone._

Windblade paused. “All lines of fate?”

Once again, she got the yellow flickers of humor. _You do not need to be told whose fates are drawn into this. Everything that has happened is leading to this moment._

Windblade nodded. “I have work to do.”

Metroplex’s light and heat briefly pressed around her, his version of a hug. _Please do not die. You are one of my favorite people in ages._

Windblade smiled. “I will do my best.”

\--

_ March 25, 1037  
Iacon Plains _

Skids gestured for Getaway to join him. Skids’ specialty was in espionage magic, trained by Jazz himself, and they were hidden from normal sight by the equivalent of an ‘ignore me’ spell. They were clustered against the outer wall, and Getaway was better at determining spell weavings than almost anyone else.

“Well?” Skids demanded after a lengthy pause. Getaway was twisting and turning the mirror in his hands, and his brow furrowed with deeper lines the more he did so. 

“Can’t punch through,” Getaway grumbled as he shoved the mirror into his pocket. “The weavings are too complex, multiple witches. Have to commend Screamer for his paranoia.”

“That’s the one thing he’s known for,” Skids muttered. “I guess we’ll have to use a false flag operation.”

Getaway grinned wolfishly. “Thank Primus we have all those injured.”

An hour later, a cart was pulled to the outer gate waving a white flag. The guards near the top of the wall called down, “What do you want?”

Skids rolled his eyes at Getaway in the darkness of the hidden drawer of the cart. It was long enough for both him and Getaway to lay down flat, but the top of the drawer was just an inch or two away from his face. It was a good thing he wasn’t claustrophobic. 

“We’ve got injured,” the cart driver said. “Under the Accord, we can ask for medical attention.”

There was silence as the guards presumably conferred. Getaway tensed. Part of the defensive spells in the wall’s spell weavings had been the stripping of illusions. Almost all of them in the cart--barring two soldiers who were not Special Operations and were actually injured--had given themselves minor injuries that bled a great deal but didn’t hamper their movements. It was better than illusory injuries.

It didn’t stop the kneejerk worry that that their cover would be blown. It was usual mission jitters, but that didn’t make it any better.

“We’ll open the gates,” the guard at the top of the gate called, “and our battlefield healer will meet you there.”

Skids hissed silently. They hadn’t thought that Starscream had enough healers in the city to have a satellite healing station near the battlefield. It was a setback, but not a mission-ender. It might end helping more--a healing station meant dead soldiers and empty uniforms. 

The gates creaked open, and both Skids and Getaway felt the cart pass through the wall spells. Skids’ skin prickled and Getaway’s hair stood on end. Above them, their fellow operatives grunted at the feeling of the spells pressing on them. Shut up, Skids implored, don’t do something stupid.

Then they were through. The wagon creaked as they were led to the left and then came to a stop. The smells of a battlefield hospital hit their noses before Skids and Getaway could prepare themselves, and the mingled scents of piss, vomit, shit, and blood nearly made Skids heave. The wagon wobbled from his attempted heave, and Getaway grabbed his wrist to implore him to stillness. 

If the wagon’s wobble worried the guards, they didn’t say anything that Skids or Getaway could hear. Let them write it off to the wagon settling, Skids prayed, please.

“Right,” said a clear voice from outside the wagon, “how many do we have here?”

Skids tried to place the voice. It sounded familiar, but from where and when? “8, Master Red Alert,” one of the Iacon guards said. “They claimed safe passage under the Tyrest Accord.”

“Hm.”

Red Alert? Hadn’t she been an Autobot medic? Skids and Getaway’s eyes met. They would have the chance to punish a traitor while carrying out their duty. 

The wagon groaned as its inhabitants exited. There was no noise to suggest that the guards were peeling off to rejoin their comrades on the wall, and that was dangerous. If the wagon stayed sitting heavy on the ground even when the passengers were gone, it would raise a red flag. 

At least they could use illusions now that they were inside the walls. It might be what kept their charade going. Once every injured Autobot was off the wagon, Skids took a deep breath--barely managing not to retch again--and cast an illusion over the wagon to make it look like it was sitting lighter on the ground. At least there wasn't mud. His illusions weren’t strong enough to combat mud.

Waiting in the wagon would be uncomfortable, but it was better than nothing. Once Getaway gave the all-clear, they would leave the drawer compartment and infiltrate the battlefield hospital. They’d steal uniforms and get them to their lesser-injured operatives, and join the changing shift of guards. Without a day of battle, the battlefield healers might choose to go home, and those that noted the empty beds would be disposed of. 

Then once they got into the city, it would be easy. 

Skids stretched out his legs a little farther and settled in for a nap. He wouldn’t get the chance to sleep again for quite some time.

\--

__ March 25, 1037  
Iacon  
Afternoon 

Windblade was repotting bean plants. The construction of her greenhouse, undertaken largely while she and Starscream had been abroad, had been used to further her soil experiments. Metroplex kept the jars of Vector Sigma spring water safe--he had said it wasn’t time for them yet--but Windblade could still grow bean plants to enrich the city soil.

It was easier to focus on the details of safe repotting than to consider that they were rapidly approaching the Autobot endgame. She would be needed soon enough, and likely in a capacity she wasn’t ready for. Spending some time with green things and getting dirt on her nails helped to ground her before she was called to be an executioner.

“Why beans?”

Windblade was so relaxed she only flinched slightly as Jazz stepped into her workspace. Now that he was fully healed, she could appreciate how languid his walking style was and that he didn’t lead with his hips the way so many soldiers did. “Bean plants return nutrients to the soil and make it richer. This soil is already healthy, but with the addition of nutrients, it will be rich and better for the agricultural transition when it comes.”

“Huh.” Jazz reached out and flicked a leaf carefully. “I always thought plants stripped the good stuff from soil.”

“Some do,” she said. “Tobacco is one of the worst. Mo--the Mistress of Flame has forbidden it from large-scale farming for that reason. If people want to grow it inside their home, that’s acceptable, but it is not welcome where food is grown.” It was an idle conversation to hide how her mind was racing. Why was Jazz here? Shouldn’t it make more sense for him to talk to Starscream?

Jazz dropped his hands to put them in the pockets of his overcoat. He was simply dressed, in a coat that buttoned to the neck and thick leggings--the air was still cold--but she had a feeling it was for show and he preferred the softness of silk to hardier fabrics. “Good thing that was never my vice, then.”

“Indeed,” she said in as dry a tone as she could muster. “Is there something I can do for you? I will warn you, the longer you stay here the more likely I am to put you to work.” She pointed across the greenhouse to where tomato plants were beginning to bloom. “Weeding is a problem.”

That wasn’t entirely true--greenhouses were controlled green spaces--but it worked to move the conversation along. “That would be bad,” Jazz said playfully. “My fingers are too good with instruments to risk getting dirt under my nails.”

She waited. 

“You’re more patient than Starscream,” Jazz said after a moment, dropping the playfulness. “He woulda had a knife to my throat by now.”

“I’m still considering it,” she said mildly. It was a lie--her nearest knife was two full table lengths away--but it worked to make him laugh. 

“I would like your leave to go, once the siege breaks.” Jazz cleared his throat and began to pick at another plant, this one with full blooms. It was a lily, and one that was apt to leave streaks of pollen all over someone as a sign of affection. “I don’t have a lot of Decepticon friends, and once Prowl figures that I’ve been giving information to Starscream, the Autobots--what’ll be left of them--will be calling for my head.”

“Where will you go?” Windblade inquired.

Jazz shrugged. “I used to be a wandering musician. I can do that again.”

“You know,” Windblade said as her mind worked through a potential solution, “the court in Eukaris is always looking for new musicians with new songs. If I were to grant you papers, they would welcome you with open arms.”

Jazz eyed her suspiciously. “In exchange for?”

Windblade shrugged as she picked up one of her trowels. “An open favor? I really shouldn’t create an offer without Starscream’s approval, but they will accept papers from me stating your abilities and a request to make you welcome. Theirs is a musical court, despite its stratification, and it’s easier for musicians and players to cross those lines than any other.”

Jazz crossed his arms. “They’ll think I’m your spy.”

“Aren’t all musicians?” Windblade replied. “They travel everywhere and see things most rulers would rather ignore. Musicians can reveal the truth and still be protected for doing so.”

Jazz was still suspicious, but it gave him something to think about, she would bet. Wandering musicians were typically offered bread and shelter, but they were more at risk than almost any other part of the indigent population. A court musician, on the other hand, could have a steady living and if they pleased a noble patron enough, they might even get some land or a small title out of it. 

Jazz had given them information that might have saved multiple lives. It had certainly allowed them to prepare. As far as Windblade was concerned, they owed him. 

Jazz eyed her again, but she focused back on her plants. “Is there anything else?” she asked. “I’m due for a shift at the hospital soon and I’d like to have some time to myself before facing chaos.”

Jazz laughed again. “No, that was it, my lady princess.” He bowed. “By your leave.”

She nodded and he left. At some point, he had learned courtly manners. Not just Senate manners, but _royal_ courtly manners. When they had time, she would have to ask Starscream for Jazz’s story.

\--

_March 25, 1037_   
_Iacon_   
_Night_

Ravage hid a yawn behind her hand as she sorted through daily reports. She had been informed earlier in the day of the wagonload of injured Autobot soldiers requesting healing assistance--had Prime and Prowl been so repugnant that even the least moral healer had left them?--and she had her people watching them. That being said, it was still a long day for anyone, and shifting between cat and human so many times tired her.

The cat aspect of her magic wanted to find someplace warm and sleep for hours; the human knew she couldn’t. She still needed to present her reports to Thundercracker and Starscream and field inquiries on potential strategies based on her Intelligence.

People thought espionage was so glamorous. Most of it was a paperwork slog.

She was in the process of sorting out her final reports when a grey tabby launched herself into the room from the open window. Her fur stood on end and her ears were back; Ravage sighed and put away her plans to get any sleep that night. This particular tabby, Pixie, was a four-time mother and had been one of Ravage’s spies since before she had her first litter. At this point in her life, she didn’t scare easily.

No...Ravage amended as she cleared space in her lap for Pixie to jump into, Pixie wasn’t frightened, she was angry. She jumped over the desk into Ravage’s lap, where she wound herself into a tight ball while making hissing and growling noises deep in her chest. 

There was blood on her paws. It hadn’t been readily apparent when she first entered the room, but Ravage was closer and could smell it. It was fresh, but not damp. Pixie’s run through the city from the outer wall had dried it. 

“How many dead?” Ravage asked. 

Pixie flicked an ear forward and back. She didn’t know. She pawed at her nose, meaning she had smelled blood--too much to be normal for a field hospital--and then she tucked her head on her paws. It was too important to tell Ravage something had gone amiss than to count the dead.

Ravage stroked Pixie’s back, provoking a purr. Her second spy, an orange-striped cat named ‘Peaches’ (his owner had named him that, and he loved her too much to contest it), would be in in a moment, and he would have more information.

She didn’t have to wait for long. Peaches jumped through the open window, landing on the chair across from her desk before springing onto the desktop. His tail was lashing the papers, and Ravage moved them out of the way and found the small tin of chicken treats the cats went gaga over.

Pixie’s head came up as she sniffed them, and Peaches sat down and curled his tail around his legs. The tip of his tail still lashed, but they ate the treats from her hand with enthusiasm. Once Peaches had finished his, Ravage cleared her throat. “How many?”

Peaches’ ears went flat and he leaned forward in a stretch. It showed all five claws on each paw. “10, then.” Ravage tapped the desk. “All soldiers?”

Peaches stood upright and hissed. That wasn’t good. “They killed the healers too?” Hook and Windblade would be furious and devastated at Red Alert’s death.

Peaches batted at Pixie, who flattened her ears and hissed at him. “They didn’t kill the healers,” Ravage said. “Did they take them?”

Peaches flopped onto the desk and started to lick a paw. “They tried, and failed,” Ravage breathed a little easier. “Are they still at the wall?”

Peaches hunched into a C shape, the position a frightened cat took. Ravage took that as a ‘no.’ “Are they trying to get into the city?”

Peaches looked at her and mewled plaintively. “They’re in the city?” Ravage deposited Pixie onto the desk. “I have to tell Starscream right away.”

Peaches batted at her arm, and she looked down at the distraught striped cat. “I’ll make sure your caretaker is safe,” she promised. “Thundercracker worked out the civilian disbursal weeks ago.”

Peaches rammed his head into her arm. “I’ll look for her personally,” Ravage told him. “I’ll make her safe.” Only then did Peaches let her go.

On her way through the labyrinthine passages to Starscream’s office, she saw Thundercracker and Captain Barricade deep in conversation. She had to make a difficult tactical decision, and she made it in a split second. “I’ve been informed that the Autobot injured were a false flag operation and that they have made their way into the city,” she told them. “They’ll be wearing our uniforms.” Why else kill soldiers? Only a handful was assigned to the field hospital, the ones in recovery--strong enough to stand guard, but still weak enough not to face open combat. “The civilians need to be evacuated from their homes into the safety shelters and the hospital needs to be secured.”

“Starscream?” Thundercracker asked.

“I’m on my way to debrief him now,” Ravage told him, “and if I don’t get there fast enough…” she shrugged. “He’s more than capable of taking care of himself.”

Captain Barricade straightened and took on an aura of command. He was similar to Ultra Magnus that way. “I’ll get my soldiers onto the street. They know hand signals to identify themselves. If those Autobots are in the city, we’ll find them.”

“Good.” Ravage looked to Thundercracker. “Until I get Starscream, you and Marissa need to run point.”

Thundercracker nodded. “Done.”

The three of them split off, and Ravage made a beeline for Starscream’s chambers. If those Autobots were part of the main force, their focus would be on getting the gates open and letting in the rest of the army. If they were part of Special Operations, their focus would be on assassinating Starscream, Thundercracker, and Windblade. She didn’t know enough to be able to predict the flip of the coin.

Damnit.

\--

Windblade turned the covers over of her palatial bed and patted the mattress to indicate that Victorion would be welcome. Victorion, who was growing fast, jumped onto the bed and laid down in a long stretch that nearly left her back paws hanging over the edge of the bed.

“Careful,” Windblade remarked and then yawned. All lights were out for the night except one candle, and that one she blew out after she pulled the covers over her shoulders. Victorion didn’t mind the covers when the room was cold--Windblade suspected Victorion’s entry into a winter-stricken world had left her with a permanent hatred of cold. Windblade couldn’t exactly blame her for that.

As she turned onto her right side, Victorion inched over until her back was pressed against Windblade, and she started to rumble a purr. Windblade smiled into her pillow and settled to sleep. 

She was woken up by Victorion tensing. Windblade’s night vision wasn’t bad, and moonlight streamed into the room through the slats of the closed shutters. It was still a dark room, but as Windblade’s vision adjusted, she saw that Victorion had crawled out from under the covers at some point and her back was arched with anger. Her lips peeled back from her teeth in a silent snarl, and Windblade looked to see what had angered her companion.

Two shadowy figures were in her drawing room, visible to her through the thin curtain Windblade used in lieu of the door, but she doubted they had seen her. They would have moved forward if they had. 

Windblade breathed in quietly, and she hissed, “Careful, Victorion,” before she summoned enough witchlight to turn her rooms into day. The two figures both yelled in surprise, and Windblade took advantage of their momentary disorientation to vault off the bed and find the first weapon at hand; it was her shukusen, and Windblade flicked the closed fan at the fireplace. Flames burst to life and reached for the figures.

They had regained enough presence of mind to avoid the flames, but that took them right into striking distance of a furious plains cat. Victorion’s kitten clumsiness was forgotten as she launched off the bed with her powerful back legs, and one of Windblade’s would-be attackers screamed as Victorion landed on them and swiped at their face with her front claws. The second attacker couldn’t decide between the cat and Windblade, but as Windblade pulled the fire closer to them, they made a decision.

They pulled a crystal jar from a pocket and lobbed it at Windblade. The jar exploded in midair and showered Windblade with a foul-smelling powder and crystal fragments, and Windblade coughed and swiped at her face. The fire broke from her control and landed on the stone floor, but her stuffed armchair was there, and Windblade’s coughing intensified as the flames licked at the wooden legs of her chair.

She could smell blood in the air and hear the mingled screaming of Victorion and her attackers, but her vision was fading. Windblade took a shaky step backward and fell over, striking her head on the wall’s inlaid cabinets, and her world went dark.

\--

Starscream hated assassins. He hadn’t ever been one himself, no matter  _what_ the Autobot propaganda said, and the appearance of two assassins outside his office was annoying. He had things to do, damnit, and they were wasting his time. A cardinal sin, as far as he was concerned.

He ducked under a knife swing and into a punch to the stomach. He bent over, his breath knocked out of him, and he released one of his hidden knives from his forearm sheath to stab it into the leg of his assailant.

He missed the artery--more the pity--but the second assassin stumbled backward, and for a moment, he could regain his breath. 

His priorities changed when he heard screams from Windblade’s rooms. It wasn’t her screaming, but that meant whoever had planned this brilliant attempt had gone after her too, and that was not acceptable. He narrowed his eyes and unleashed his magic. The injured assassin fell over onto the floor, stone dead, but the second one turned and ran. Starscream cursed under his breath. He didn’t have the time to go after them, and an assassin running through the palace was a threat to everyone.

As he threw open the doors to his quarters, he made a mental note to arrange for blood wards in Windblade’s rooms. No assassins had been able to get past his wards, that was why they had ambushed him in the hallway. She didn’t have the capacity to make wards, and her guard’s wards had either been too weak or nonexistent. That was a problem.

He heard a thud outside the connecting door, and he yanked it open as he adjusted his sight. Windblade was lying on the floor, unconscious--he guessed it was because of the powder on her face and the crystal fragments on the floor, some kind of drug--and her attacker had started to pull rope off their belt.

Starscream held up a finger, and the attacker froze. The second one had been taken down by Victorion--he would really have to thank Ravage for that cat--and she was preparing to jump on the second attacker. “Victorion, down.”

And the cat, who was contrary as all cats were, sat down and started to groom one of her front paws. Starscream rolled his eyes at her. Cats. He turned his attention back to the attacker. “Who sent you?”

The attacker swallowed, and Starscream tilted his head. “No. Hasn’t anyone told you I can stop a suicide spell?” He snapped his fingers, and his yellow magic flared around the assailant. “You don’t get out of this so easily. What did you dose the princess with?”

When people felt death magic, they typically took the body’s feeling of dread at its imminent death to be a fear spell, and the assailant was no different. They swallowed again. “S-sleep spell.”

“Is there a cure?” Starscream inquired quietly. He focused his magic further, and sweat began to make its mark on the assailant’s coat. Oh, they were afraid, to sweat through multiple layers. Feral satisfaction made Starscream smirk. 

“It’s temporary,” the attacker mumbled. “Only s’pposed to last an hour.”

“Long enough to get her out of the city,” Starscream mused. Well, temporary sleep spells were easy enough to undo. 

Then Windblade screamed, drawing the attention of both of them. Her eyes were still closed, but she was thrashing. She didn’t seem to be in pain--she was afraid for her life. 

Starscream looked back at the assailant. “Would you care to rephrase that?” he asked mildly.

The assailant licked their lips. “Nightmare spell,” they replied. “Getaway said it would make her more pliable.”

“Getaway,” Starscream said with disgust. He took another look at the attacker dead on the floor; yes, that was him. So Skids and Getaway were behind this little adventure. That made sense, curse it. Skids would have the sense to run once he felt the touch of Starscream’s magic, and he could wreak all sorts of havoc by himself. Damnit, damnit.

“What was the plan here?” Starscream inquired, twisting the spell a little further. Fear was more potent than torture. Fear relied on the victim’s mind to make up their own torture, and the imagination was _always_ worse. “Kidnap her in an effort to hold the city hostage?”

He didn’t think so, not with Skids sent to kill him, but people also had an instinctive drive to correct what they thought was wrong, and Starscream’s guess was proved correct when the still-living attacker shook their head. “She’s the price of the Carcer alliance. Kill you, steal her, and the wind goes out of the city’s sails. They didn’t choose your brother, they chose you. Without you, they’d be lost.”

There would be some holdouts, but war survivors and deserters hadn’t survived by clinging to their loyalty and honor. They were pragmatic and would accept the Autobots eventually, just like they had initially accepted Megatron. 

“I do wonder what they would do to you when they find out you’ve blabbed all their secrets,” Starscream said cheerfully. “Of course, they won’t exactly get the chance--.”

The assailant’s eyes widened with terror, and then the front door to Windblade’s quarters slammed open. Ravage was in the room before they could blink, and Victorion abandoned her pose on top of the corpse to wind affectionately around Ravage’s ankles.

Windblade screamed again, this scream lasting longer and was more ragged than her previous screams were. Starscream’s senses twitched as he fought with his rising anger on her behalf. He had seen her frightened, but never so scared she screamed. He wanted to kill the person responsible for frightening her like that, but he had a feeling that whoever was menacing her in her dreams was already dead. 

However, there was a ready target, and Starscream turned on the attacker. “Well then,” he said silkily, “I do believe--.”

“No,” Ravage interrupted. “Give him to me.” She looked at the assailant with deep loathing. “I know him. I can get him to tell me everything.”

“I’ve already found out enough,” Starscream retorted. He told her what he had learned, and by the end of it, Ravage’s dark skin was flushed with anger. 

“Just once,” she told him, anger underlining her every word, “I wish they would leave us alone.” She looked at the assailant. “You’re going to die,” she promised him. “Starscream is going to enjoy killing you.”

“I have your permission?” Starscream asked with a hint of surprise. “I thought you told me to stop killing assassins in private.”

“We’re at war,” Ravage replied. “One more corpse won’t mean anything.”

It was all the impetus Starscream needed, and the assailant’s choking noises were overlaid by Windblade’s screaming.

Starscream lost interest in the attacker after he started the death spell (he amused himself with the thought that the spell was self-terminating) and he knelt down next to Windblade. When he looked her over, the nightmare sleep spell was colored a sickly green over her skin and lay over her like a transparent shroud.

It would be easy enough to undo. That was the problem with sleep spells, he groused. So many were shoddy work. Sleep was naturally easy to create, but the body had its own reflexes that undermined unconsciousness, and he used one as he lifted Windblade into a sitting position.

Then he let her fall.

The fear of falling, the one fear people were born with, overpowered the sleep spell in an instant as Windblade’s eyes flew open and she gasped. When she saw Starscream staring at her--Ravage was on the other side of the bed and out of her immediate line of sight--she gasped again, her blue eyes veiling with tears. “You’re alive.”

Starscream swallowed. There was a burst of pain in his chest at how relieved she looked. He bent down to help her upright, and she clung to him as she wept. She didn’t say anything, thankfully, but the grip she had on his upper arms said everything. 

Ravage came around the corner of the bed, and Starscream looked at her for help. He didn’t know how to comfort people.

Victorion solved the problem by leaping onto the bed and then off it to ram her head against Windblade’s side. Windblade hiccuped a small laugh and she let go of Starscream to allow the cat to tuck her head against Windblade’s chest and purr loudly. “I’m all right, I think.” She wiped her face with the bed sheet and then looked at Ravage and Starscream. “It was a nightmare sleep spell, wasn’t it?” 

Both of them nodded. She sighed. “Nasty things. Are they--,” she swallowed, “are they taken care of?”

“They’re both dead,” Ravage said before Starscream could. “Victorion killed one and Starscream the other.” Ravage glared down at Victorion. “Be careful with blood,” she warned the cat, who had stopped purring to listen to Ravage. “Blood’s addictive and once you want it, you will never be free of it.”

Windblade’s brow furrowed, but Starscream ignored that. “How did you know to be here?” he demanded of Ravage.

Ravage cleared her throat. “The field hospital was attacked earlier tonight. I gave what information I had to Thundercracker and Barricade and immediately came here. From what I understand, I think they split their operation to send assassins here and to work on getting the gate open.”

Starscream’s eyes and focus narrowed. “I need to join up with Thundercracker.” He looked down at Windblade and hesitated.

Ravage saw the hesitation and addressed it immediately. “I’ll watch her. You should go.”

“I need to get to the hospital.” Windblade grabbed the edge of the bed and hauled herself upright. “Hook will need another commander.”

“I’ll get you there, even if we have to fight our way to it.” Ravage nodded to Starscream. “You should arm up. You too, princess. I know you have armor and weapons.”

Windblade reached out to squeeze his hands. “Do not die,” she ordered him. “I really don’t want to have to go home.”

He grinned and kissed her cheek. “Don’t make me have to avenge you.” He looked at Ravage. “You either.”

Starscream took his leave. Ravage was right. They had shit to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff is happening! Tell me your thoughts.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting down to the end now! After this, there are only _two chapters left._ Chapter 31 is my list of sources and further reading.
> 
> As a reminder, I have a [writing tumblr,](http://inkfic.tumblr.com) and I'm always taking questions and occasionally prompts. I'm hard at work on the MTMTE tie-in, and with any luck, it won't be as long as this behemoth. I'm open to suggestions on that one, although I think you all might be surprised at some of the choices I've made.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: violence, descriptions of gore/blood, and discussions of massacres.

CHAPTER 28: SKYFALL, PART 2

* * *

__ March 25, 1037  
_ Iacon Plains, Iacon  
_ __ Night

Prime waited at the head of a column near the front gates. His people had clearly killed the guards that patrolled the top of the wall; there had no alarms rung from the formation of the Autobot column. They were just waiting for the gates to open.

A bitterly cold wind blew over his head, and Prime glanced upwards to see that the stars were gradually being blocked out by clouds. He ignored it in favor of the gates as they slowly screeched open.

“Forward,” he ordered, and the soldiers obeyed.

\--

_ Iacon _

Windblade fumbled in her wardrobe to find the right clothes. She pulled on her loose riding trousers--black, she needed black--and a dark red over-robe that went down to her knees. She tied it closed with the belt that held her sword sheath, and she pulled her molded leather armor over the whole costume. It was black leather, and she had to pull in her stomach as she fastened her armor before she could relax into it. 

Her curved sword went into the sheath, and her shukusen was attached to the opposite belt loop. She stepped into her boots, and once they were fastened up to her calves, she pulled her reinforced leather gloves over her hands.

Her hair was already pinned up. Was there anything she was missing…?

Windblade saw the acorn charm and chain and yanked it over her head. She was going to need it. Her prescience, never her strongest sense, was shrieking that she was going to need that charm.

“Right,” Windblade said as she exited her wardrobe. “I’m ready.”

Ravage grimaced. “You don’t have metal armor?”

“It was never considered necessary. Leather was strong enough.”

“Remind me to tell Starscream you need plate,” Ravage told her. “I know you’re not a warrior, but we can do better.”

Windblade nodded. She was a little offended at not being considered a warrior, but this wasn’t the time to dispute it. 

“Come on,” Ravage told Victorion. “You’ve gotten first blood. You’re coming with us.” Victorion bounded to her side, her back legs jumping up higher than her front. Windblade had to smile at the plains cat’s galumping. 

Ravage took point in the dark halls as they crept out of the family wing and toward the stairs. Windblade let her as she ran her fingers over the hilt of her sword. Victorion was in her element, jumping and creeping along the hall. Windblade wondered if Victorion was delighted to do this kind of creeping with permission. Oh, cats.

Ravage held up a hand when they approached a corner stair. Windblade paused until Ravage gave her the ‘all-clear’, and then they padded down the stairs. It wasn’t until they were going around the corner of the stairs that Windblade realized Ravage didn’t have a weapon. That said something about the strength of her magic.

It was a comfort.

As they approached the next floor, Victorion’s ears went flat and she hissed silently. Windblade grasped the hilt of her sword, and Ravage looked to her. ‘Bright light?’ she mouthed to Windblade, and Windblade nodded in understanding. She gestured for Ravage to cover her eyes, and then Windblade summoned a crimson witchlight that turned night into day.

The attackers creeping up the stairs were surprised, and that gave them two seconds of disorientation that helped Ravage and Windblade. Victorion launched from the stairs onto one of the five attackers with a snarl worthy of a horror story, and Ravage ducked around two--and then Windblade lost sight of Ravage as the two remaining attackers saw her and fumbled for a crystal jar like what had previously been used on her only half an hour earlier.

Windblade had no desire to go through that again, thank you, and she unsheathed her sword in a rasp of metal. The crystal in the hilt of her sword caught the light, and she swung the blade toward the more forward of the duo.

They ducked under it, and rammed their face right into Windblade’s kick. They fell down and the second attacker took over with two knives. Shit, she hated knives. Windblade braced her feet on two separate steps, and as the attacker wove in with both hands shining with steel, she watched them steadily. 

They feinted left, and Windblade caught one descending blade on the edge of her sword. A line of pain on her arm told her which blade she hadn’t stopped, but she couldn’t focus on that. Her original attacker was standing up, and with her distracted by the knife-user, she could be overwhelmed. _Solus, help me._

Then a large black cat, bigger than Victorion, screamed as they jumped onto the original assailant, and Windblade’s attacker with the knives turned to see what had happened. She saw the opportunity and took it, sailing her blade forward until it pierced her attacker through. The attacker choked, and she twisted the grip to be sure that when they went down, they wouldn’t get back up again.

The black cat had killed the original assailant, leaving five corpses around them. Windblade pushed the corpse off her sword and then wiped the blade on their coat. She heard a transformation spell, and when she looked back up, Ravage stood in front of her, utterly naked.

“Oh,” Windblade said after a moment. “That explains a bit.”

Ravage grinned ferally. “I’m not bothering to find my clothes since I’ll change back before we move forward, I just didn’t want you wondering where the second cat came from.”

Victorion pranced forward to wind her way around Ravage’s legs. Windblade smiled instinctively. “Do you think that’s the last of them?”

“Hope says yes, pragmatism says no.” She tilted her head to the side. “The city gates are open.”

Windblade closed her eyes, the smile dropping away. “Oh no,” she whispered. “Oh no.”

Ravage nodded in acknowledgement that they were now knee-deep in shit. “We’ve got to keep moving.” Windblade kept her eyes closed in deference to Ravage--the few shapeshifters she had met preferred to keep their transformation private--and after the sounds of the spell cleared away, Windblade opened her eyes again.

“The hospital,” she told the big black cat with Ravage’s amber eyes, “now.”

Ravage didn’t nod, but she and Victorion started to run. Windblade caught up and hoped that Solus and the Prime of Battles would keep her people safe.

\--

Starscream met Thundercracker on the top of the palace wall and promptly swore. The gates of both outer walls were open, and the Autobots were streaming into the city. “The civilians?” he asked when he had managed to bring his temper mostly under control.

Thundercracker, unflappable as always, passed him a spyglass. “Most of them have gone into the shelters we set up.”

Starscream picked up on the hesitation. “Most of them?”

“The others are determined to hold their streets. They remember the last Autobot siege.”

Starscream opened his mouth to yell about how the civilians were being stupid, and then he remembered some of the civilians he had met during his and Windblade’s daily walks. If those civilians were the ones holding the streets…”Please tell me they have the resources to hold them.”

“They’re under orders to hold the alleys to keep the Autobots from using the side-streets to overwhelm us,” Thundercracker replied. “They won’t hold forever, but they might hold them just long enough.”

“There aren’t enough people to hold all the alleys,” Starscream said. He could see the next steps--take the alleys not held by angry civilians armed with everything they get their hands on, swarm up the streets to go up to the palace. The palace gates were broad, broad enough to allow a charge, and once they broke into the palace, all hell would be unleashed. How could that be managed?

With the spyglass to his eye, he saw that Prime was leading the charge. That was brave of him, but from what Starscream remembered of the Siege of Vos, Prime had led his forces then too. It made it easier to shoot him. That didn’t mean it would kill him. Primes, alive or not, were annoyingly difficult to put down and have them stay down.

“We have to save what we can,” Thundercracker said next to him. “The safety centers, the hospital, the palace--it holds all the records. At some point they’ll try to set this place ablaze. Just because we’ve made it as impervious to fire as we can doesn’t mean that we can’t be smoked out.”

“Leave the hospital alone for now. The last I saw, Ravage and Windblade were heading there. Wasn’t Marissa en route to the hospital as well once all the necessary parties were alerted?” Starscream scanned the rest of the city through the spyglass, looking for weaknesses that the Autobots would exploit. 

“Chromia was with her. If we didn’t have this mess to worry about, I’d be afraid that those two would launch a coup,” Thundercracker muttered as he tapped Starscream’s arm for the return of the spyglass. 

Starscream ignored him. “Leave that a problem for after. The four of them, once they combine forces, are nasty enough to hold off anything except a major incursion at the hospital.”

“Aren’t you concerned that…?” Thundercracker shut up when Starscream glared at him. 

“Well,” Starscream said after he thought a certain amount of silence had elapsed to prove how concerned he wasn’t and he closed the spyglass. “Enough dallying. We have a breach to plug.”

Thundercracker nodded. “I follow you.”

It was, for once, completely sincere.

\--

Windblade reached the ground-floor landing at a trot. Sweat was beginning to trickle down her neck, but she ignored it. Ravage gave her a signal to wait as she skulked down the hall to check for any further issues, and when she slunked back into the hall with her ears pressed close to her head, Windblade knew. “How many?”

Ravage somehow signaled ‘10.’ Windblade frowned. Even with Ravage and Victorion, it would be too easy to be overwhelmed. They needed some way to even the odds, a surprise of some kind.

This hall was lit by torches. They had all been lit by the same light--the fire recognized each torch as being part of itself. Windblade held out a hand, and a part of the fire detached itself from the torch to hover in her hand.

Ravage tilted her head and lashed the tip of her tail, the picture of feline curiosity and impatience. “Give me a moment,” Windblade told her as she started to shape the fire between her two palms, the way a sculptor shaped clay into a ball.

When the fire was appropriately small and round, she plucked another bit of fire from a different torch. Fire lived and regenerated, and it was eager to be shaped. 

Ravage watched as Windblade worked the flame until she had a sphere almost as big as her face. The lights in the hall had dimmed as she had asked them to, and the only light came from the fire in her hands. 

She could hear them now, the ten soldiers Ravage had scouted. They were laughing and joking with each other, and she could hear metallic noises; looters, then, more interested in stealing than killing.

She hoped.

“One more moment,” she told Ravage. “I can snuff the torches.”

Ravage bared her teeth in a cat’s grin. Her black coat would work well in the shadows Windblade would create. 

It was the work of a moment to ask the outer torches to dim. The looters barely noticed, gossiping over their current spoils, but Ravage led Victorion deeper into the shadows to flank the looters.

Windblade waited until they were ready, and then she turned the corner. The looters barely had time to turn to look at her before she spread the orb of flame between her hands and thrust the flames toward them.

No matter how brave someone was, anyone would flinch at a column of flame flying at their face. All of the looters--there were ten--fell away from the fire. Two of them didn’t move fast enough and put their hands up to shield their faces, but the fire blistered their skin and caught on their sleeves. 

They naturally screamed.

That was the cue for Ravage and Victorion, who lunged into the knot that the looters had fallen into. Windblade had to look away as she unsheathed her sword. They were taking out the looters as quickly and efficiently as possibly, but it was not a clean process. She was there as back-up, and hopefully she wouldn’t be needed.

She wasn’t. It was a relief.

The torches regained their light as Ravage shifted back to her standing form. She was still naked, but appeared either unaware or uncaring of it. “They would have killed us?” Windblade asked unsteadily.

Ravage nodded once. “To hide what they had done. Conflict brings out all kinds.” She nudged a corpse with her foot. “This kind were opportunists. Such ones are dangers to all sides of the conflict, for they would kill everyone to pursue what they want. Politics do not sway them.”

“That’s...sad,” Windblade said finally. “Not to have anything worth believing in.”

Ravage gave her an amused glance. “Most people would say it was sad not to have something to fight for.”

“People fight all the time, over matters stupid and reasonable. Belief is harder.” Windblade looked Ravage up and down. “Do you...need anything?”

Ravage glanced down at herself. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve fought naked. I have the scars to prove it.”

She also had the curves and marks that showed she had carried at one time. No wonder she preferred to dress in such loose clothing. “Still, I’m certain we can find your armor--”

“Windblade!” 

The two of them turned to see Marissa and Chromia coming toward them. Windblade breathed a silent sigh of relief at Chromia being alive and unharmed, although her guard had a nasty bruise forming around her mouth and was carrying a bloodied halberd. Marissa was dusty, also carrying a bloodied spear, but was apparently unharmed otherwise.

Ravage relaxed fractionally. “Oh good,” she told them, “you’re both alive.”

Marissa tossed her a pouch. “I thought you might have felt the need to feel the night air. I brought you something.”

Ravage opened the pouch to see clothing--loose, comfortable clothing that moved easily and didn’t hinder. “You’re the best.”

Chromia goggled briefly at Ravage’s nakedness, before deciding it was above her payscale and ignoring it. She approached Windblade and looked her up and down for injuries. “Are you all right?”

“Some of the advance guard decided to try to assassinate Starscream and kidnap me,” Windblade said with a twist to her mouth. “Obviously it didn’t take. Starscream went to meet up with Thundercracker. We’re,” she indicated Ravage, “heading to the hospital.”

“Just in time, too,” Marissa said grimly. “The Autobots are pulling out the nastiest stops we know of.”

“We knew that,” Windblade said, not fully understanding. “They’ve used liquid fire and weaponized disease--.”

“She means that there’s a contingent attacking the hospital,” Chromia cut her off. “They’re under siege and losing. Red Alert’s MIA, and Hook’s trying to succeed long enough to get into surgery.”

Anger was familiar. Windblade rode it until it only tinged her vision, and she squared her shoulders. “Well then. Let’s go.”

Chromia grinned, a statement of intent in and of itself, and the four of them moved together until they arrived at the hospital--and chaos.

\--

“I feel inclined,” Starscream commented to Thundercracker in between sword slashes, “to blame you.”

“For what?” Thundercracker protested as he caught an axe’s downward swing on his staff and retaliated with a vicious kick to the crotch. His attacker moaned and fell down on Thundercracker’s waiting knife. “I never said this would be easy.”

“I need _someone_ to blame,” Starscream replied, “and you’re here.”

“This is why you’re not good at making allies,” Thundercracker informed his brother, “this is why, do you understand? You can be the _worst_.”

“Well,” Starscream gave him a grin that called for fangs, “I never said I was easy to get along with.”

Thundercracker aimed a halfhearted kick to Starscream’s shins. Starscream dodged and slammed the pommel of his sword into an attacker’s face. Thundercracker heard bone crunch and winced. “I never liked fighting in the city,” he said to Starscream when there was a brief moment of calm. “It gets too tight.”

Starscream’s eyes were sparking with energy. He thrived off these type of madcap, chaotic battles, and sometimes Thundercracker envied him. Thundercracker was just tired--his arms were beginning to ache from the effort of using his staff and knife interchangeably, bruises were forming everywhere, lack of sleep was gnawing at him, and he was hungry.

Starscream might well have been invincible in comparison. His battle sense allowed for him to have an almost unnatural rhythm as he danced around soldiers, his sword flashing in the torchlight as he brought them down. 

Even Megatron couldn’t match Starscream for grace, although he had tried. 

The area cleared around them for a moment, and Thundercracker paused to wipe his face. It smeared the dirt on his face, turning it into grime, but at least he was no longer in danger of having sweat trickle into his eyes at the worst possible moment. 

Starscream looked around the city square, his mouth tight. Thundercracker stepped up to him and brushed their shoulders together, and Starscream glanced at him. “So many dead,” Starscream said quietly. “Such a waste.”

There were too many bodies in the square for Thundercracker to feel comfortable counting them. “We’ve gotten them away from the palace gates,” Thundercracker replied, just as quietly. “It’s a start.”

Starscream didn’t bother to answer as he wiped his sword blade on a fallen soldier’s coat before putting it away. “Where’s the next trouble spot?”

Thundercracker looked up the wall and put two fingers in his mouth to whistle. Starscream covered his ears at the piercing sound, and he glared at Thundercracker as one of the pages waved and started down the stairs on the inner part of the wall. 

Thundercracker ignored him.

The page came to a stop in front of them. “The hospital,” the page gasped, “there’s trouble at the hospital.”

Thundercracker and Starscream exchanged looks. “Archers,” Starscream called. “I want all of my archers with me to the hospital now!”

“I’ll get the cavalry,” Thundercracker said glumly. He looked down at the page. “Thank you.”

The page sketched a bow, and Thundercracker and Starscream left to deal with the next mess.

\--

Battle had a rhythm. It was something Windblade had never needed to consider before, but as she stepped back from a wild staff swing and thrust her sword up for her assailant to fall on, she was acutely aware of it. 

It didn’t matter she wasn’t a warrior like Chromia or Marissa, or someone with war experience with Ravage. She was good enough to find the rhythm, and that meant she survived.

Windblade swung her blade up to keep a knife away from her midsection, but she was thrown from her rhythm when the knife-wielder grabbed her sword wrist with one hand and punched her in the face with the other.

Windblade fell back three steps as agony flared on the left side of her face. Her eye hadn’t been struck, but it wouldn’t matter if the skin around her eye swelled up. Blood was beginning to trickle down her face, and her eyes were watering. She lost track of what was happening around her for a few seconds, and she paid dearly for her inattention. 

The flat of a sword slammed behind her knees, and she folded. White-hot pain radiated from her knees, up to her thighs and down her calves, and then her original attacker backhanded her viciously. She landed on the ground and curled around her stomach instinctively, in an attempt to protect herself from the assault that was no-doubt coming.

Instead, she heard the singing of loosed arrows, accompanied by the thumping of bodies. She covered her head with her hands as one fell close enough for her to smell them. She waited until the archers were done to uncover her head, but she was in too much pain to get up. The agony she felt in her face had subsided to a white-hot throb, which still overwhelmed her. 

Other injuries that she hadn’t initially been aware of were making themselves known now that she wasn’t moving. Her arms ached with overexertion and bruises, and her stomach was cramping. Was she hungry? She couldn’t tell.

“Windblade,” Chromia said, and she bent to lift Windblade up. Windblade clung to her as Chromia examined her face. “Shit. They must have been wearing chain mail.”

“Would’ve--would’ve broken my face,” Windblade managed.

“Little sparrow,” Chromia said with affection and worry, “your face is so swollen I’m sure it’s broken.” She touched the epicenter of pain on Windblade’s cheek and Windblade choked on a scream. “Scratch that, I know it is.”

“Marissa’s gone to get Hook,” Ravage said from Windblade’s other side. “Starscream’s on his way, I recognize his archers. Hook--.”

“Is probably in surgery,” Windblade gasped out, “but if the store-room is open, there’s a salve in there that’s made from, from,” her thoughts were skittering and she couldn’t focus them.

“Comfrey and calendula,” Chromia said. “Did you make them?”

Windblade tried to nod, but her head wasn’t as willing to move as her spirit was. 

“Here,” Chromia told Ravage, and Windblade abruptly shifted from Chromia to Ravage, “I know her labels. It’ll hold until Hook’s available.”

Ravage shifted Windblade until Windblade was leaning on her instead of overburdening her. “You didn’t do too bad,” Ravage told her.

Windblade made a pained noise. 

Ravage snorted. “Everyone has injuries, princess. No one’s ever good enough to prevent them. And we try to downplay pain, all of us, but it exists for a reason. You did good.”

Windblade relaxed a little, and then she remembered. “Victorion!” She started to straighten, but Ravage eased her onto a bench instead. 

“Victorion is fine,” Ravage said. “She’s currently washing her face in the court fountain.”

When Windblade blinked, it hurt. “Why?”

“Because her muzzle is covered in blood and she’s trying to avoid getting it in her mouth,” Ravage said patiently.

“Blood’s addictive,” Windblade remembered.

“That’s right.” Ravage lifted Windblade’s chin with two fingers and tilted her face from right to left, and she whistled. “Definitely a mailed glove. At least it wasn’t knuckled.”

Windblade went queasy at the thought, and then she was just queasy. Her hands were beginning to shake, and in an effort to put off the panic attack, she breathed in deeply through her nose. Opening her mouth hurt--right, she had been hit there. 

“Are you all right?” she asked, and then reconsidered. If Ravage was badly injured, then she would only feel more overwhelmed, since her vision wouldn’t focus enough to perform basic aid, let alone anything more complicated.

Ravage grinned. “A few cuts and bruises. I’ll be fine. My magic means I heal quick.”

That gave Windblade’s mind something to latch onto. “Shapeshifters heal quickly? I never heard that.”

“It’s also why we look so young, too,” Ravage winked at her. “Our bodies stay constantly in flux, so we don’t age normally. Starscream.”

Windblade jerked, and her body reminded her of why that was a bad idea. She winced, and that hurt more. “Ravage, I see you’re upright,” Starscream drawled as she heard his footsteps. She turned toward him as he said, “Windblade, I see you’re not.”

“I’m sitting upright,” she said defensively.

“I can’t understand you through that fat lip,” he told her. She saw him take off one of his gloves and she flinched when he came close to her face. He paused, long enough for her to relax, and then he touched the forming bruise on her cheek. 

It hurt, and then it didn’t. Coolness radiated from his touch until the whole right side of her face went numb. It was preferable. “Next time,” he told her, “dodge.”

“I didn’t do this on purpose,” she said.

“He’s expressing worry,” Ravage said. “Only he can’t do it like a normal person. Chromia’s gone off to get first aid supplies and I see that Marissa has found Thundercracker.” Ravage’s arch tone told Windblade how that reunion was going and she resolutely gave Thundercracker and Marissa their privacy.

Starscream’s hand ran down the back of her head gently. “Your hair’s a mess,” he told her.

“Someone tried to grab it,” Windblade said as she tried to remember what exactly had happened. “I stabbed them. There’s probably blood in it.” She sighed. She hated blood in her hair. 

“I can rebraid it,” Starscream offered.

She stared at him, surprised at the offer. Did he even know how to…? He took her confusion as a mild insult, and he stuck his nose in the air. “How do you think I managed my hair when it was as long as yours? I certainly didn’t let it loose.”

She ducked her head. “Please,” she told the ground. “It’s--unseemly.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, and she closed her eyes. She felt him picking through the knots in her hair--gently--and she only opened her eyes again when she heard Chromia’s voice. “I have the supplies,” Chromia said. “Hook’s not in surgery, but he’s about to be. He said thanks for stopping those ‘Autobot scum,’ by the way.”

“Always happy to please,” Ravage chirped back. “Ooh, cleaning ointment!”

Windblade almost smiled before she remembered smiling would hurt. Chromia knelt in front of her as she pulled out the small clay pot marked with Windblade’s careful notes. “Close your eyes,” Chromia said. 

Windblade obeyed and nearly flinched when Chromia smoothed a cold thumb over her skin, but she forced herself to relax. Hook kept his stock-room cool to maintain his medicines, and Starscream's cold charm was wearing off. The cool ointment, scented with comfrey and calendula, soothed her, and the ointment went to work right away.

Needle-sharp pain throbbed in her upper cheek, proof that her ointment was working and that her fractured cheekbone was healing. The swelling on her face and lip wasn’t going down, though--only a healer could completely undo that, but the ointment was speeding up the healing of the most crucial injuries.

Hook had reinforced her medicines. She hadn’t known that.

At least she could focus again. The pain was still there, but it was at a level she could manage and therefore mostly ignore. She looked up at Chromia and saw the injury that crossed from Chromia’s lower cheek down to her shoulder. “Your neck!”

“Aw, it’s fine,” Chromia smiled down at her. “It’s shallow. It didn’t hit the vein.”

Windblade fussed wordlessly until Chromia gave her the other jar of cleaning ointment. They created an odd tableau--Starscream stood over them both as he finally started braiding Windblade’s hair, and Windblade was seated on the bench, cleaning Chromia’s cuts with a linen square and cleaning ointment as Chromia sat on the ground in front of her. 

“I know you’re feeling better,” Starscream remarked as Windblade expertly applied the ointment to Chromia’s cheek, neck, and shoulder. “You’re caring for other people.”

Windblade crushed the impulse to give him a rude hand gesture. Chromia’s cut was jagged--she had been moving when she was moving--and the edges of the cut were a little puffy, but the ointment turned the margins of the wound into something healthier. 

“Here,” Thundercracker announced as he and Marissa came closer, “I have your stimulant of choice.” He passed around sealed bottles of something that smelled like ginger when Windblade cracked the seal suspiciously.

“Stimulants?” she asked.

She could hear Starscream rolling his eyes. “It’s something to help push off battle fatigue and to give us something of a second wind. It can be habit-forming, so Hook brews it to taste awful, but it will help us forget that we’re bruised and annoyed about it.”

Marissa grinned. “Exactly,” she said in her most cheerful, bouncy voice. “We’ll just stay annoyed.”

Windblade smiled back at Marissa. It didn’t even hurt. “And you believe in sharing your feelings.”

“I have been taught that sharing my emotions is much healthier for me,” Marissa said solemnly. “Less for them, of course.”

Thundercracker beamed, as if to share his pleasure at how witty his wife was. Starscream rolled his eyes again as he patted Windblade’s shoulder. “Do you want me to pin your hair up?”

Windblade shook her head. “It’ll be too heavy,” she admitted. “Can I stand up?”

Starscream took a step back, and Windblade stood up and Chromia joined her. “So what now?” Windblade asked as she completed the unsealing of her bottle. The smell of ginger was stronger, and there was peppermint in it too. Maybe Hook would give her the recipe if they both survived. “We can’t be done.”

“No,” Starscream agreed. “We--Thundercracker and me--need to meet back up with our forces.” He looked hard at her. “But you do not.”

She shuddered. “I have no desire to do that. I need to go to the hospital.”

Ravage and Chromia exchanged looks. “I should--,” Chromia started.

“She should--,” Ravage began.

“I would appreciate knowing where Red Alert is, if she’s alive, and if she needs medical care,” Windblade interrupted. She looked at Chromia and Ravage. “If she’s alive and fine but unable to get back to the hospital because of the fighting, she will need help to get here.”

Ravage and Chromia exchanged glances. “We can do that,” Ravage said. “I’m not good at open fighting, anyway.”

Starscream opened his mouth, but Windblade shook her head at him. “We need another full healer. I’m an excellent nurse, and there are other excellent nurses, but very few surgeons.”

Starscream sagged a little. “Fine.”

Once everyone had departed, Windblade knelt to let Victorion sniff her. She had drained Hook’s potion--the residual pain was gone--but her hands were shaking a little and it was hard to catch her breath. Victorion climbed into her lap, purring loudly, and reached up to nuzzle Windblade’s shoulder.

“I’m fine,” she whispered to the kitten. “I will be fine.” Stroking Victorion’s fur was automatic, even it was rougher than usual. Looking down at Victorion kept her from seeing the bodies. 

She had to get up and go into the hospital. She was going to do it.

Just not yet.

\--

Red Alert came to consciousness slowly. She was covered with two corpses, but they hadn’t started to smell yet. Thank Vector. The battlefield hospital was quiet, she couldn’t even hear anyone breathing, but she wasn’t going to move yet. 

She closed her eyes and carefully spread her magical awareness out. Her magic was nearly dry, but her awareness was more like another sense instead of actively relying on her magic. She and Hook had gone back and forth about how magic changed physiology, but they hadn’t come to a consensus yet, and if there was someone waiting for her to wake up in her hospital, they would never reach it.

She was surrounded by the dead, but there were no sparkbeats warning of a coming ambush. She relaxed fractionally as she shoved the corpses off her, a difficult task when she was lying down, but finally she was able to get to her feet.

It was when she stood that the smell of blood swamped her. She stared down the ward to see bodies in every bed, almost all of them stripped. Their murderers hadn’t bothered to cover the corpses, an indignity that stirred the old anger. 

She didn’t fully remember what had happened. They had gotten the group of Autobot soldiers--all of whom were missing--and she had started to suspect something was amiss when their wounds were shallow. Then...then…

Red Alert cradled her head. It was throbbing. She had done a stupid thing. She hadn’t taken stock of herself beyond her magical reserves. She couldn’t remember performing a surgery or working such a long shift that it would make sense for her magical reserves (something she had worked hard on growing!) to be so drained. 

She had been attacked, and viciously. Her body remembered three slashes to her stomach, so deep that it had pierced her intestines, and then her throat had been cut. Red Alert felt her throat and felt the dried blood and thin line of scar tissue. She had had just enough to heal herself instinctively after the stomach wounds, but not enough to keep from scarring. 

It had been a thorough attempt at killing her. She vaguely remembered being called ‘Traitor!’ as her attackers slashed at her. Too bad for them it had failed.

She needed a chair and something to eat. She found the chair first. It was easier. 

Her body’s memory of the injuries had clarified why her recollection of events were so vague. It had taken too much energy to be both conscious and healing, so her mind had gone black. They must have thought she was dead, and maybe for a moment she had. It had been enough to assure them. 

She needed to warn the city. She needed to eat. 

Her headache intensified as she warred with priorities. Food was going to be necessary to keep her going. If she didn’t eat soon, she would pass out again and probably wouldn’t wake up without help. If she didn’t warn the city, they would be in for a massacre. 

A sparkbeat entered her awareness, and she picked her head up from her hands to see a large black cat--nearly twice the size of a plains cat--enter the hospital. She stood up. “Shoo! There’s nothing for you here!” It had been the blood to draw it, she knew. Eating corpses would be easier than having to take down its own prey. Well, tough. These corpses had been her patients and she owed them their last rites. Those rites did not entail being eaten by a hungry predator.

The cat looked at her with clear disdain, and then before her eyes, the cat transformed into Starscream’s Head of Intelligence--Ravage. Yes, that was right. “I’m not here to eat them,” she said in disgust. “Only the desperate eat corpses.”

“Cats make corpses, unless they eat their prey while it’s still alive and no one told me.” Red Alert sat back down.

“That’s not what I meant.” Ravage walked down the hall, uncaring of how the blood splashed her naked legs. “Chromia, it’s clear!”

“Chromia,” Red Alert said with relief. She was not all that familiar with Ravage, but if Chromia was with her, then the princess knew what had happened at the hospital. That meant Starscream knew. “Thank Vector.”

Chromia entered the hospital, and her face twisted with disgust and anger at the evidence of the massacre. Then she saw Red Alert and her eyes widened with dismay and horror. “Red Alert--are you all right?!”

“I will be,” Red Alert said, “provided you have food with you.”

She didn’t trust what food the Autobots may have left behind. Drugging was always possible, and she needed her head clear. 

Chromia crossed the ward in several long strides, already removing her belt pouch to pull out jerky and dried fruit. Red Alert took the food as Chromia replaced the pouch at her waist and found her water bottle.

The only thing that kept Red Alert from practically inhaling the food was that jerky took time to chew. Her stomach roared with hunger as she finished the fruit, but between the water, jerky, and fruit, she had enough to get her up to the city hospital. Chromia was looking her over in the assessing way the princess must have taught her while Ravage prowled the bloody ward. 

“Does she want some clothes?” Red Alert asked Chromia between bites of jerky. “She’s getting blood on her.”

“Blood washes,” Ravage replied. “I don’t have any open cuts to worry about, and you’re going to need me back in cat form soon enough.”

“Why?”

Chromia made a face as she took the empty bottle from Red Alert. “The city’s under attack. Ravage took me here through the back ways, but we still have to get back in, and her perception is better than mine.”

Ravage joined them and she reached up to pat Chromia’s cheek. “You’ll get there, I promise. War sharpened my senses. If the Autobots keep this up, yours will be in league with mine.” She looked at Red Alert. “Can you walk?”

Red Alert, her mouth still filled with jerky, nodded. She swallowed before she said, “My magical reserves are low. I’ll need to sleep before they replenish themselves, but I don’t think we have time for me to crash, do we?”

“No,” Ravage said flatly. “At least not right now. The princess is holding the fort at the hospital so that Hook can perform vital surgeries, but she could use an extra pair of hands. Can you still perform surgery?”

Red Alert sighed. “Yes, but there are things my magic guarantees that I can’t, right now. Things to prevent infection and the like.”

“There are potions and ointments for that,” Chromia said slowly. “But surgery is a skill, not a gift. If you can perform surgeries, there are things to make up for you can’t do right now.”

“Right,” Red Alert said. “As long as I can get some of Hook’s stimulants with the promise of a long nap later, I can help now.”

“Good,” Ravage said. There was a threat underlying her words if Red Alert had refused. Red Alert rolled her eyes and decided to ignore it. Intelligence officers rarely understood the demands of healing, and she would be a fool to start expecting it now. 

Getting back into the city shredded her nerves, however. Her instincts wanted her to go to every battlefield they crept around to offer her skills, but she would have only gotten in the way, and without her magic to back her up, she couldn’t claim healer immunity. On top of that, if these were the Autobots so devoted to the cause (what was left of it), that they were willing to murder a healer they considered a traitor, they wouldn’t respect healer immunity in any case.

She shivered. Every army had its diehard devotees; they kept the army going when the more pragmatic would hesitate or desert. But typically the devotees were seeded in multiple units, to keep their beliefs from overwhelming the rest of their team and talking them into doing something stupid and reckless. If this army had been winnowed down to just the devotees, they were in trouble. They would never stop unless they were killed.

The journey back to the hospital took streets Red Alert hadn’t known existed and immediately wanted to condemn. Buildings pointed up toward the sky at such an angle that the alleys were unnaturally dark, and the scents of piss, shit, mud, and garbage created a miasma that wanted to make her cough. Why did Starscream allow it? He could have had these buildings torn down for wall stone weeks ago.

When they reached open spaces again, the grey fingers of dawn were stretching across the sky. The fountain in the hospital courtyard was still burbling merrily, a sacrilege compared to what was happening only a few streets away, but it meant Red Alert could wash her face and hands. From the slight tinge in the water, someone else had used it for the same purpose.

The doors to the hospital’s foyer were thrown open, and as the three of them entered, the princess looked up from stitching a nasty cut on someone’s upper arm to see them. Her shoulders slumped in relief, but she continued her sutures until she was done. Red Alert approached her as she wrapped the wound with bandages, and then once it was clear there was nothing else to be done, the princess turned and threw her arms around Red Alert.

It was a surprise. The princess wasn’t demonstrative.

“I thought you were dead,” the princess told her, muffled. “I heard there had been an attack at the battlefield hospital and that you hadn’t been seen and I thought you were dead.” The princess was, was _crying_. Red Alert patted her shoulder, utterly at a loss for how to respond. She hadn’t thought she and the princess were so close that the princess would grieve for her. “Thank Solus that you aren’t.”

There was something else going on, too. Red Alert’s exhaustion from the loss of her magical reserves was slowly going away, just enough that she was only tired, not ground down. And her magic...it was coming back too. Not enough for her to be at full strength, but enough.

“I nearly was,” Red Alert said as she pulled away from the princess. “Dead, I mean. They certainly tried hard enough. Thank Vector it’s hard to kill a healer. Speaking of...my magic, it’s…”

The princess wiped her eyes with the edge of her smock, a part that didn’t have blood on it. She had been busy. “It’s not a full restoration, but it will be enough, I think. If something happens,” the princess flinched, disliking the idea of ‘something,’ “you can do what’s necessary.”

“Are you afraid of something?” Red Alert asked quietly. She would need to find a robe and wash her hands. Her hair was fine, apart from the blood in it--the blood from her slashed throat had gone into her hair--but a cap would take care of any potential cross-contamination.

The princess swallowed. “Many things. Things I didn’t know I was afraid of. I’m glad that you’re alive.”

“I got that,” Red Alert said with sincerity. She was touched. “Well then.” She looked around the foyer. “You’ve been triaging?”

“As best I can, given the circumstances.” The princess nodded to a closet. “There are clean supplies in there.”

“Thank you.” Red Alert set her shoulders and walked over to the closet. It was time to work.

\--

There was refuge in work. Windblade stitched, bandaged, cleaned, and splinted so many wounds that she lost track of time. The sounds of battle never abated, only became more distant. The fact that the hospital wasn’t under siege again was good news, and Windblade tried not to care more than that. 

More and more fallen soldiers were making it to the hospital, too. That was also good news; the way back to the hospital was clear and was staying clear. Ravage and Chromia had gone to join the fight, and with so many people she cared about in the fighting, if she focused on the anxiety and fear of the battle, she would be lost.

It was better to work.

Red Alert flitted in and out. Windblade was focused on triage and trauma, that was where she was needed, and until she was told otherwise, she was staying in the foyer to deal with the soldiers coming in. 

At least the rising sun did something good--she no longer had to rely on torches. Instead, the sunlight filled the room and gave better light and clarity to the injuries she was examining. That could make the difference between bruise balm and splinting.

She was cleaning long diagonal slashes down a soldier’s forearms--defensive wounds, made with a very sharp knife--when someone entered the foyer and all movement stopped. Windblade could feel how their presence immediately absorbed all the loose magic in the room (injured witches didn’t have very good control over their magic), and that told her who it was.

She ignored them. They would be angry about not being acknowledged, and that was fine. Fear had stolen over all of her other patients, but she had a duty to the patient in front of her.

One of the lotions she had put together for Hook was a concoction of yarrow and lavender, yarrow to help the wounds close, lavender to clean and ease the pain. She smoothed it over the slashes and started to wrap them, instructing to the soldier, “Come see us in a day to get the initial bandages changed. You’re not too badly injured, so the biggest concern is rot setting into the wounds. Don’t get them wet for the next day, and you should eat something to help offset the blood loss. The next hall has food set out.” The foodstuffs were things that didn’t need to be prepared, like dried fruit, bread, and water, but it was something. 

“How sweet,” the new arrival sneered.

Windblade continued to ignore them as she rose and wiped her hands on her smock. “Please, all of you, go into the next hall and get something to eat. There will be nurses there to check your remaining injuries.”

The soldiers in the foyer didn’t need telling twice as she turned to face the newest arrival--the Prime. His pollution sucked at her magic, even from across the room, but her magic shied away from him. He could corrupt her, and she would not allow that under any circumstances.

When the room was empty, the Prime spoke again. “I see you have excised the collateral damage.”

“If that’s what you wish to call it.” She desperately wished for a weapon, but her shukusen was hidden under her smock and all of her other weapons weren’t within arm’s reach. “Why are you here?” How did you get around the literal army to be here to confront me?!

“I thought we might...chat.” The Prime finally left the doorframe to enter the room fully. Sunlight streamed in behind him, outlining him and leaving the rest of the room in shadow. “You are a Camien,” his voice deepened with disgust on naming her homeland, and she hated him for it, “and this is not your fight. I can remove this fight from being your concern.”

“What do you want?” she asked flatly. This wasn’t the moment to say that it was too late to make a deal. 

The Prime’s teeth flashed in a predatory smile, and Victorion--who had been napping in a corner, away from all the noise and bother--rose with her hackles up and teeth bared. “Why, my dear princess, I want what everyone else wants. I want _life_.”

\--

The Autobots had been forced back halfway down the city, and those at the very edge of their ranks were starting to spill out of the open gates. Starscream chose to take it as a victory, even though they weren’t done yet. 

“The civilians are holding the alleys better than I thought they would,” he shouted to Thundercracker.

Thundercracker swung his staff around, clubbing one of Starscream’s opponents in the back of the head. They dropped. “They have reason to.” He stopped to pant and wipe his forehead free of sweat. “Something’s not right.”

“This whole situation isn’t right,” Starscream said as he pulled a throwing knife out of his boot and throwing it at someone about to strike Marissa from behind with a labrys. “Which one in particular?”

“Prime’s gone.”

Starscream’s head came up with a snap. Prime had been there, bellowing orders. His voice was distinctive, even across a battlefield and alleys. Starscream had grown used to it and tuned it out, and then he had gotten so caught up in the general dance of battle that he hadn’t realized it was gone. “Is he down?”

“No,” Thundercracker said, “he’s gone. I recognize this tactic, the Autobots used it whenever they wanted to hide that Optimus Prime had gone for Megatron. They mass in a knot, and that--.”

“That’s supposed to make us think Prime’s in the middle of it so we don’t look for the sides.” Starscream swore. “Prowl will be happy to know that one still works on us.”

“I don’t think Prowl’s making the calls anymore.”

It was dangerous to let his magic loose when he could be downed by an arrow at any time, but this time, there was no Megatron, so Prime leaving the field had to have a more nefarious purpose. Starscream withdrew into the shadows and allowed his magic to go.

Everyone with a sparkbeat was a pinprick of light to his senses, but the Prime--unlike a corpse--was a void. When other sparkbeats ran up against this void, the sparkbeats dimmed. Starscream sifted through his perception until he found the void, and his eyes popped open when he realized that void was coming up against the stronger light of Windblade. 

“I have to go.”

“For Primus’ sake, why?” Thundercracker snapped.

“Prime’s at the hospital and threatening Windblade.”

Thundercracker paled. “Go.”

Starscream didn’t need the permission. He ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to hear all of your thoughts! This chapter was nonstop action, and I really hope you all enjoyed it!


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for our 29th and penultimate chapter! Warnings for violence, descriptions of injury and mentions of blood.
> 
> I have to admit that all of your unhappy comments about the cliffhanger last chapter made me cackle and rub my hands together. I hope this chapter was worth the wait.

** CHAPTER 29: SKYFALL, PART 3 **

* * *

_March 25, 1037_  
_Iacon plains_

Prowl hissed with satisfaction as he finally picked the last lock holding his wrists in place against the tent pole. The manacles had been SpecOps grade, not Army standard, and they had been designed to hold Jazz (a failing endeavor. Nothing held Jazz). Prowl wasn’t too bad a lockpick--Jazz had locked him out of successive things until a fit of frustration led to Jazz deciding Prowl would pass--but it was harder with a lock he couldn’t see.

So, Prowl, what have we learned? Jazz’s mocking voice always put his hackles up, and it was always Jazz’s voice he heard whenever he made a truly colossal mistake. Raising Prime was a mistake, and not just because it cost him power. Never create a problem you couldn’t solve. 

It was too early to apply hindsight. A good part of his mind still thought Prime had been a good idea, but that he had chosen the wrong Prime. Something itched at his senses--that idea was wrong, but he didn’t know why yet. 

The camp was empty when he exited the tent. No horses remained, and if he was going to survive the battle’s aftermath, he needed a horse. With all of the attention on the current battle, he should be able to slip in to the city and steal a horse.

_You should be proud of me, Jazz_ , he thought wryly, _I’m doing what you would do. I’m getting the hell out._

\--

_ Iacon _

Windblade’s eyes narrowed at the Prime in front of her. “Life,” she said. Then, “You want _life_?”

The Prime spread his hands. “Revenants are not truly alive. I combed the records for how to make myself alive again. There was nothing, except for a truly cryptic clue: ‘The hand of Life shall restore.’ It seemed utterly useless, until Prowl happened to mention that you could bring back the dead. It made everything come together.”

“And just what makes you think I would help you?” she said through clenched teeth.

“You get to walk away alive.”

Windblade laughed, and that angered Prime, she could see it. “You think that’s your best line right now?” she asked with incredulity after she stopped laughing. “Have you seen the current battle lines?”

Prime’s mouth tightened. “It is a momentary set-back.”

She wanted to know why he was demanding it now. Was there a side-effect of her making him alive that would turn the tide of battle in his favor? She knew very little about revenants specifically--she knew they were generators of social and spiritual pollution and that to create one was a crime against Primus--but she didn’t know how to cure one and what the side-effects would be.

She couldn’t risk it. “A set-back?” she mocked, since her laugh had angered him so much before. “Is that what you call a coming loss? Once you are out of Iacon, you will never be back again.” She bared her teeth at him. “I will create the wards myself.” She wasn’t good at wards, but she could ward against him.

He took a step forward, deeper into the receiving hall, and that was all she had been waiting for.

With a surge of magic, she shoved him out of the hospital foyer and into the courtyard, where he sailed across the ground until he came to a sudden stop by the opposite wall, making an impact crater. Windblade walked out of the room, only stopping to retrieve her sword belt before she continued.

The Prime was dazed as he tried to pull himself out of the impact crater. Windblade unsheathed her sword with a sound of tearing metal--it appealed to her mood--and dropped the sheath on the ground. She pointed the sword at the Prime and said, “Leave now.”

It wouldn’t work, she knew that, and she needed to remove the Prime from the equation, but he wouldn’t expect her to know how. 

Prime growled as he climbed out and lunged for her with his own sword. It was a broadsword, meant for hacking, and there was a chance it could break her own blade. _Solus and Prime of Battles, give me strength_ , she prayed, and then the Prime was on her. She dodged under two of his desperate blows, and then caught and deflected the third so that the blade went into the stone of the courtyard. 

The Prime snarled as he yanked the sword out of the ground and tried to cleave her in half. She jumped, the blade swishing underneath her, and in his moment of confusion--he swung the sword too far out--she slammed the flat of her sword into his face. The skin split, showing muscle and bone, but the Prime didn’t bleed. Couldn’t bleed.

“Oh,” she said. Oh. A revenant couldn’t bleed, couldn’t heal. All injuries stayed open and once the body began to decay, it would continue to decay until the spark was carrying a rotting corpse, a physical sign of the spiritual pollution the revenant unleashed on the world. 

No wonder he needed her magic. She wondered if he could see it.

She paid for her epiphany. The Prime moved faster than she gave him credit for and slammed his fist onto her existing bruise. Bone, so newly healed, broke again, and this time it went deeper than a fracture. Blood began to drip down her cheek as she folded over, one hand pressed to it. She barely had time to gasp before he had wrapped his hand around her throat and was lifting her off her feet. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” the Prime gritted out, “but you _will_ be doing this.”

She had no breath for a snarky response, even if she could create one. Those were Starscream’s purview. She opened her mouth in an attempt to get more air, and she nearly bit her tongue at the fresh wave of pain. 

Then the Prime bellowed and dropped her. She fell gracelessly, only managing to turn onto her unhurt side before she slammed into the ground, and she wheezed with the effort to catch her breath. For a few seconds, her vision was swamped with tears, and she coughed and hacked until the throbbing in her throat subsided to a dull sandpaper soreness. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, careful where her broken cheekbone roared with pain. Her left eye was starting to swell shut, and she felt for the blood running down her cheek with her fingertips. 

She had the feeling that blood mattered. Blood and her magic were linked--her magic’s color matched the color of fresh blood. Why did it matter?

There was another roar from Prime, and it startled her out of her bemusement. She pushed herself upright and saw that Starscream was dueling the Prime, and two crossbow bolts were sticking out of the Prime’s back. That was what had stopped him from choking the life from her; Starscream had saved her life.

She stopped to pick up her sword and nearly fell, dizzy. Her blood fell onto her blade, refracting the crimson blood through the mirror-bright silver sword. She looked down at it. Why did blood matter?

Starscream yelped, and she refocused. The Prime had tripped Starscream and was even then driving the edge of the broadsword down. Starscream rolled over and slammed his heel into the Prime’s groin.

Windblade winced, and then gasped with pain. Groin assaults _hurt._

It gave Starscream the space he needed to get back on his feet. The Prime could feel pain, but it didn’t affect him like it did the living. He wouldn’t get dizzy with blood loss. The only way to stop him would be to hack him into pieces. 

Windblade stared down at her sword and made a decision.

She ripped the necklace containing the acorn Metroplex had blessed from her neck and rolled the acorn down her cheek. It hurt, but the point was to get blood on the seed. It needed her blood, and she didn’t see the point in giving herself a new injury if she was bleeding from an old one. 

_ Please, Solus, let this be the right action to take. I’ve never put down a revenant before. _

She gripped the acorn so hard the point of it dug into her palm as she raced across the courtyard. Starscream was starting to tire as he deflected the Prime’s blows again and again--his arms and legs were shaking, and the Prime was pressing his advantage. She just needed a few more seconds…

The Prime kicked Starscream in the stomach, and Starscream’s hands dropped his sword as he staggered back. Before Windblade could do anything to help, the Prime roared in triumph and ran Starscream through.

Windblade screamed, but her scream was overtaken by a loud thunderclap. Starscream’s eyes were wide, and as he fell off the blade, she saw blood beginning to trickle out of his mouth. She screamed again, _“Help!”_

The Prime turned to her with the smirk of the deathless. “No one is coming to help him. No one cares to.” He spat at Starscream, and Windblade was afraid. She was afraid, and she didn’t know what choices were right or wrong.

She threw her sword.

It hit the Prime, at least, and knocked him back several steps away from Starscream’s body. Windblade skidded to a stop next to Starscream, and felt for his pulse. It was there, but even as she started to count, it was getting slow.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Shh,” she replied, wiping at his mouth with her smock sleeve. “You’ll be all right, I promise.”

He had the presence of mind to smirk at her. “Can’t promise--life.” He was gurgling.

“Oh yes I can,” she whispered angrily. “Don’t you dare die.”

“Dunno,” he murmured, his eyes closing, “could be nice.”

A hand from behind her grabbed her hair and dragged her away from Starscream. She screamed, in pain and rage, as her hands went up to the grip on her hair. She managed to keep hold of the acorn, but she dropped it when the Prime used his hold to throw her at the foot of the fountain. Her head cracked against the stone of the fountain, and her head rang. She was in more pain than she had ever remembered being in, and she didn’t have the will to fight against the Prime as he lifted her up by the throat and pressed her down on the bench of the fountain. 

It wasn’t a good angle. It pushed her shoulder blades against the bench, and her neck couldn’t bend down far enough to touch the bench, but Prime tried. 

“Why do you keep trying?” Prime demanded as he pushed her body against the stone. She was having trouble breathing, and she had dropped the acorn charm. 

Prime released her throat to backhand her on the injured side of her face. She screamed and slid off the bench to hide her face behind her hands. Her bravery and determination had deserted her; she didn’t want to experience any more pain. 

“You can end this at any time,” Prime snarled in her ear. His hands were on her upper arms and dragging her upright. “Just fix me!”

_Help_ , she thought numbly. _P_ _ lease, someone, help me. _

She had the disconcerting sensation that someone whispered in her ear, “All you had to do was ask,” and then her hands (purely of their own accord!) shoved against Prime’s chest. Magic--not hers--accompanied the gesture, and the Prime was pushed away from her. She managed to stand, and the pain was lessened enough for her to consider other issues. 

Prime’s eyes settled on her, and she swallowed hard. Her fear was returning, and she didn’t know what to do next. Blood and the acorn seed were linked to Prime’s demise, but she couldn’t put the pieces together. What was she supposed to do?

“Help,” she whispered again, and just as Prime began to rush her, a shimmering bolt of lightning arced downward and pinned the Prime where he stood. 

That same voice said urgently in her ear, “Now! It can’t hold him forever.”

She stooped to scoop up the acorn, and when she looked at the Prime again, she saw the blue-white light of the Prime’s spark, fluttering madly in the cage of Prime’s chest. The spark…

She held up the acorn. “My blood is the key to your healing,” she said. “Come and get it.”

The Prime’s body couldn’t move, but the spark did. It ripped free of the Prime and launched itself at the acorn, and the acorn twisted and rolled until the spark was nestled inside it. The blood she had smeared on the outer shell of the acorn was gone, and although she knew the acorn wouldn’t hold the spark forever, it would hold it for the moment.

The lightning released the body of the Prime, but a blue-white imprint remained. As Windblade blinked furiously to clear her vision, she saw the imprint resolve itself into a tall person with sad eyes. They bowed, and then with another thunderclap, they disappeared. 

The body collapsed to the ground, and Windblade’s pain came back with a vengeance. Whatever had been holding it back had released it. “Thank you,” she told the spirit. “For your help.”

The wind tugged on the end of her braid, now fallen out of its braid, almost affectionately, and then she thought to look up at the sky. The skies were dark with portentous blue-grey clouds, and the air was turning yellow. The wind that had been playful a moment ago turned vicious and cold, flaring her smock coat out behind her until she was afraid it would be ripped off her shoulders.

_ Starscream. _

She dropped the acorn into her smock pocket before turning to Starscream. His chest had stopped moving, and when she knelt next to him, she didn’t find a pulse. Her stomach knotted, but she refused to lose him--yet. She interlaced her fingers together and started pressing the heels of her hands against his sternum with all her strength.

7 pushes, then two breaths in, Sister Medica had said in that long-ago training seminar. If you’re doing it right, you’ll break the rib cage, but it is necessary to get the spark pulsing again.

She agonized over causing him more pain, but it was necessary. 

5--6--7--

She stopped to open his mouth and ensure a clear airway before she gathered her magic and forced it inside him as she breathed into his mouth. His mouth tasted like blood. No, she couldn’t think like that.

1..2..3..4..5..6..7..

Her wrists and arms were aching, but she had felt something give with the last two pushes. Two more breaths, then on the third push of the third round, she heard and felt the crack of the first two ribs. “Come on,” she panted, “don’t let him win. Damnit, Starscream, I can usually count on your spite!”

Maybe it was her cursing, maybe it was her magic, but on the sixth push, Starscream’s eyes flew open and he coughed long and hard. Windblade took a quick breath of relief before placing her hands on his chest and abdomen, feeling for the damage.

His body hadn’t gone septic. Blood loss had felled him before the foulness in the entrails could spread, but it was a risk now that his heart was pumping again. She reached for more and more of her magic, blindly cauterizing the intestines, stomach, and liver before urging further blood production. Starscream was screaming with pain, but she had to block it out. If he was going to live, she needed to ensure he would be in good enough shape to get to Hook and his surgery. This was the only way.

When she had done everything she could to stabilize him, she bent over and wrapped his arms around her neck. He obeyed, and with one arm under his back and the other under his knees, she got to her feet and stood. 

It was only twenty yards across the courtyard into the hospital receiving hall. Only twenty yards. She could make it.

Hook met her in the hall with a stretcher. “Sweet Primus,” he said as he looked at her and Starscream. “What in the pit happened?”

“The false Prime,” she said shortly as she laid Starscream on the waiting stretcher. His eyes were glassy with shock, but he recognized her and he wouldn’t let go of her hand. “He took a belly wound, I did my best to stabilize it but he needs surgery--Starscream, if you don’t let me go, you’re going to die.”

Starscream only gripped her tighter. “You saved my life,” he rasped.

“Nonsense,” she said, not intending to be sharp but the acorn in her pocket was starting to burn as the spark fought with the confines of the acorn’s shape. “I only--.”

“You saved my life,” he said with more emphasis. He pressed a bloody kiss to the top of her captive hand. “I won’t forget it.”

She softened slightly. “Let Hook do his work.”

Starscream glanced at Hook before he asked, “Are you coming back?”

She blinked. “Of course.”

“Are you coming back to _me_?”

Windblade smiled involuntarily. “Oh Starscream. Haven’t I made it clear that I’ve chosen you?”

Starscream let go of her and relaxed into the stretcher bed. He was beginning to shake with the shock, and his skin had taken on a green flush of nausea, but he found enough energy to murmur, “I love you.”

Then his eyes slipped closed as his body arched in a seizure. Hook shoved her aside to stabilize Starscream and turn him onto his side, and she willingly fell back. He loved her?

The acorn’s burning went up another ten notches, until she started to feel it burning her smock. She had to do something with it before she could process what Starscream had told her, and she backed out of the room before turning to run for a horse. 

Seeds were meant to be planted, and the spark would live again, just as she had technically promised. She didn’t want the false Prime’s soul planted anywhere near the city proper, but the other option was outside the city gates. It was a dangerous proposition, but it was the best one she could come up with.

She went with it. Starscream had ridden to her rescue, and she borrowed his horse. 

She didn’t remember much of the ride to the outer gates. Her horse knew its way better than she did, and she allowed the gelding its’ head as it meandered through the back alleys to keep her safe. She was tired and her head was throbbing, but she had to keep moving. The acorn was running so hot it was starting to blister the reinforced fabric of her smock, and she couldn’t lose it before she planted it.

It was frighteningly easy to exit out the gates. When she looked down the main street, it was covered with bodies of all affiliations, and the sight made her queasy. She hadn’t seen so many battlefield dead before. Such a waste.

The gelding stopped at the outer gates when she nudged him, and she slid out of the saddle and held onto the horse’s side as she caught her breath. The movement had caused her vision to go white with pain, and she didn’t dare move until it cleared. Once it did, she found her knife from her belt sheath and dropped to the ground, using the knife to dig a hole.

When the hole was nearly a foot deep, she dropped the burning acorn into it and wiped the knife free of dirt. Her fire stirred at her request, and she sent it into the metal of the blade to purify it before she fed the heat into the dirt around her. The metal cooled, and she took a deep breath before slicing the top of her hand. When she made a fist, blood dripped onto the acorn in the hole below.

She hastily covered it with dirt and pressed both palms against the small mound. She had never been good at ceremonial magic, but the Mother Superior had admitted once that rhyming helped it along. Her mind raced until she could croak out, “Primus, Solus, and Vector Prime, accept my gift of blood divine,” she had been taught that willingly sacrificed blood was divine in purpose, and she thought hard for the next line, “let the tree grow straight and true, allow the rain to the land imbue,” that was tough wording but it still technically worked, “return life the soil below, your mercy to bestow.” She bowed her head.

_ Please, Solus. Please. _

She was about to give up in despair when a bolt of light connected her to the seed deep under the soil. She could feel the coils of the potential life contained within it, as well as the spark frantically hitting the walls of the acorn seed in an attempt to escape. She opened her mouth to scream in agony as the lightning bolt took over her magic and fed it directly. The cuts on her face reopened and streaks of pain started from her temples to the sides of her head. She had never been overcome like this before, and it hurt. 

She screamed again, but didn’t hear it. 

The seed vibrated under her and then she was thrown back onto her back as a sapling rushed upwards. She closed her eyes. It was too much. She could see the arcs of blue light as the spark raced up the growing tree, desperate for a way out, but it was only contributing to the growth of its eternal prison.

She made herself sit up. If she was going to die, she was going to do it upright. 

Then, there was a flash of lightning, followed by a loud crack of thunder, and then she felt the first drops of rain hitting her skin. She lifted her head up to the sky, and cool rain washed her face free of the blood that had streamed from her injury. It hurt--her head still throbbed--but she recognized the magic in it. 

Around her, the soil went from a light grey to dark grey and then dark brown. She could feel the soil rejoice at the touch of life that the rain brought with it, and she opened her mouth to drink the rain. It sank into her tongue and tasted clean and clear. Ah. It was Vector Sigma spring water.

Thank you.

_Sacrifices are recognized in kind_ , a voice whispered in the back of her mind, and she closed her eyes. She was so tired. Her whole body hurt, she could feel the burning of magical exhaustion, and her nerves were on edge. She had solved what she had set out to do, but she still had the sense of some looming danger, something left undone. What was it?

A sword blade landed on her shoulder, and she sighed. “Oh right,” she said rudely, “I forgot _you_.”

Prowl put more pressure on the blade, flicking aside the collar of her smock to press the sharpened edge against her bare skin. Pain lanced through her shoulder, but it was a whisper compared to her head. “I could kill you.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t otherwise move. “If you were going to kill me, you would have done it already. Your master wants me alive. If you want to remain alive, you’ll leave me this way.”

“I could take you with me.”

Windblade laughed, the honest reaction causing her jaw to scream with pain. She rode the wave of pain to its conclusion, Prowl’s anger causing the sword edge to bite deeper into her shoulder. Blood trailed down either side of her shoulder, and she finally managed to grit out, “You wouldn’t be able to keep me or control me, and you know it.”

She saw Prowl’s face as it contorted with rage, and he raised the sword above her head. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t stop him from harming her; her magic was drained and she had no energy left. Let it be quick.

She heard the whistle of an arrow and her eyes popped open. Prowl’s arm was still upraised, but he was looking over his shoulder. Another arrow sang, and he ducked. He swore at her and slammed her head with the flat of his blade. The ground quivered below her as she fell over--onto the injured side of her face, damn it--and the resulting pain took her into blessed darkness. She didn’t have the presence of mind to wonder why the ground was trembling. She was beyond such cares.

\--

_ March 29, 1037  
Iacon _

Starscream woke up to a quiet plinking sound. He raised a hand to rub his eyes, and the slight movement made his stomach tighten and throb. He winced at the sudden pain, but when he relaxed, the pain receded.

“Easy,” Hook said from the writing desk near the window. “I have too many critically injured to heal anyone all the way.”

“How long was I under?” Starscream asked as he used the bed’s frame to roll himself over to look at Hook. He was in a private room--no less for the ruler of Cybertron--but there was another bed in the room. Windblade was curled upon it, her head bandaged and green muck plastered to the side of her face. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was regular, but there was no doubt how injured she was. The purple and yellow bruising extended past the margins of the muck on her face. 

“Only a day or so. We won, by the way. Ultra Magnus, Thundercracker, and Captain Barricade have instituted order and set up the cremation details. There’s been an accounting of the dead: we’ve lost a little over three hundred, they lost a thousand.” Hook gave him a look. “We had superior archers.”

Starscream preened a little. “Good.” He glanced back at Windblade. “And the princess?”

Hook shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Captain Barricade. He’s the one who brought her in. Red Alert worked on her and once the princess was all patched up, Red Alert brought her here.”

Starscream pushed himself upright, and Hook left his writing station to prop Starscream up with pillows. “I need to talk to them--all of them. I need to be debrief. How did this happen, who’s still alive, and what is that sound?”

“Oh,” Hook said, “that’s rain.”

Starscream blinked. “Rain.”

“Rain,” Hook confirmed.

Starscream shoved the blankets off his legs, and he forced himself upright. His stomach cramped, but he made his legs move. Hook made a small noise of protest, but Starscream pushed the window open to see--

Rain. Gentle sheets of rain blurred the lines of the courtyard outside, and the sound of the pouring rain was stronger with the window open. Starscream held out a hand to catch the drops, and when he drew it inside, he stared at the water gathered on his palm. 

“Starscream,” Hook said softly. His hands came up to brace Starscream’s elbows. “It’s all right. It’s rain.”

“I know,” Starscream said, or tried to. His voice was thick, and it was hard to swallow. His eyes were burning. He couldn’t remember what this feeling was, and he was falling back into Hook’s hands. Hook caught him and levered him onto the bed, and then hot tears were streaming down his face. 

“Shh,” Hook soothed, “you’re all right.” He hesitated for a moment and then he drew Starscream’s face into his chest. Starscream hadn’t cried in years, he hadn’t even been capable of it. For him to be crying now…

“Yes,” Hook said, “you broke your curse. You’re free.”

It was too much information at one time, and he decided to blame coming out of surgery for being so emotionally overwhelmed. It took him a good ten minutes before he calmed down, and then Hook politely gave him a minute to wipe his face on the blankets. Once he was stable, he looked up at Hook. “I need to meet with everyone. Can I do that?”

Hook made a face. “I’d rather you stay in bed for at least another day, but if you are willing to meet with everyone while in bed and you stop when you are tired, you can meet with them.”

“Do I need to be here?” Starscream inquired. “We have sensitive topics to discuss.”

“I have a nurse who can go with you,” Hook sighed. “Moreover, he’s not afraid of you and will tell you when you need to stop.”

Starscream made a face of his own. “But--.”

“I need to tell you,” Hook said, playful exasperation dropping away, “that you’ve survived a serious injury. You stopped breathing. She,” he indicated Windblade with a nod, “used chest compressions to bring you back. That means a broken ribcage, in case you forgot. Added to your stomach injury, and you’ve got a long recovery time. Healing can’t fix everything, and we had to use a scorched-earth policy in regards to your stomach and intestines to keep the foulness from getting anywhere it shouldn’t be.”

Starscream wasn’t going to like what was going to come next. He asked anyway. “And that means?”

“You’ll need to do certain abdominal exercises every day for at least three months. We’ll evaluate where you are in that time and see if it’s necessary after that. And as for your food habits, you’ll be living on broths, bean curd, and unseasoned food for the time being--including meat.”

Starscream’s mouth fell open with indignation. “I’m from Vos, you can’t ask me to eat unseasoned chicken like I’m--Praxian!”

“I’m not asking,” Hook said, “I’m telling. No fruit juice, complicated tea blends, or honey either. Your stomach won’t be able to handle them. At best, you’ll have nasty cramps. At worst, it’ll be diarrhea and vomiting. Don’t ask anyone to clean up after you if you’re stupid enough to test me.”

Starscream glared at him. “Anything else?”

“Oh, yeah--no sex. I know it’ll be tempting, but sex puts a lot of strain on the body and you’re going to be exhausted for a while. It will get better, but you’re about to turn forty-one in a few months and you can’t bounce back like you did when you were twenty.”

“Why didn’t he just slit my throat?” Starscream grumbled. No seasoned meat! Torture.

“That would be easier for you to recover from,” Hook agreed. “Don’t feel too sorry for yourself. She gets the same regimen when she wakes up.”

Starscream refocused. “A belly wound for her too?”

“Magical exhaustion and fractured zygomatic and mandible bones,” Hook said, “plus the muscle damage in her shoulder. She was on the wrong side of Prowl’s sword, and he decided to take a swing at her right collarbone. He made it. Her jaw and cheekbone are just about healed, but it was bad enough damage she has to watch what she does, says, and eats for two months. You’ll have something to bond over.”

Starscream felt familiar anger settling into his veins. With a masterful effort, he breathed in and ignored it. “Does she have to be here too?”

“I’d like to keep her one more night if she hasn’t woken up by this afternoon,” Hook told him. “Just to be sure. By the time Captain Barricade got her here, part of her cheekbone was exposed and I want to make sure there’s no sickness settling into her bones.”

Starscream winced. “Yeah, that’s--yes, that’s fine. If all goes well, I’d like arrangements to move her into her rooms tomorrow. Whatever nurse you assign to me can look after her as well, and I’d like the both of us to be out of the public space while we recover.”

Hook rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. The aftermath of a siege was an excellent time to attempt assassination--there was too much chaos and movement to be completely sure of safety. “Fine. And yes, I will help you move to your rooms.” There was an evil glint in the old healer’s eyes. 

Starscream eyed him, a little nervously. “Will this involve the wheeling chair?”

Hook grinned. “Oh absolutely, my lord.”

“I don’t deserve this,” Starscream bemoaned to the ceiling. “I’m a good person.” To show what a good person he was, he magnanimously ignored Hook’s snort.

\--

In order to maximize his energy, Starscream decided to have all of the major players come to his room for one large debrief. The ground rules were as followed: everyone would summarize what actions they personally had taken during and immediately after the battles, and then they would take a few questions before moving onto the next person.

Naturally, the ground rules fell apart almost immediately when Ravage and Ultra Magnus began to detail how many prisoners they had taken. Ultra Magnus was in favor of prosecuting them in a mass-trial, Ravage argued that since they were Autobots and had attacked a civilian city, they had violated the Tyrest Accord and could were subject instead to a military trial, and everyone started shouting at each other from there.

Starscream, uncharacteristically, allowed them to go on. Mau was curled against his hip and was purring madly, and Victorion--denied access to the hospital--was draped across Starscream’s ankles. The cats helped. His curse hadn’t let him know just how much they helped.

When the shouting lulled a little, he stirred. “That’s enough.” 

Silence fell. He looked at everyone he had assembled: Ultra Magnus, Ravage, Thundercracker, Marissa, Captain Barricade, and Bumblebee. Ravage had argued for at least one Autobot to be present, even if it wasn’t an Autobot who had fought against them. “What we’re all really arguing about is that these prisoners can’t be allowed to live, under either military or civilian statutes, but we can’t just come out and say that. Instead, we’re quibbling over how we will allow it.” He folded his hands in his laps. “Do they have to be killed?”

“Yes,” Ravage said immediately. “Release them, and they’ll try again once they regroup.”

“Yes,” Ultra Magnus said with more reluctance. “It was an unjustified assault against a civilian holding.”

“No,” Bumblebee said, drawing all attention his way. He shrugged at their confusion. “They were part of this assault for two primary reasons: 1) Starscream, they hate you. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

Starscream shrugged and tried to hide how the movement hurt. “Lots of people hate me. I’ve stopped taking it personally.”

“2),” Bumblebee replied with slight amusement, “they were following a Prime, or thought they were. The people who followed Sentinel were the people who thought Optimus was too soft on a ‘monster’ like you.” Bumblebee shifted his hold on his cane. “But now that Prime is gone, killed by a princess of a country that never understood the stakes of our war.” He held up a hand when everyone drew in breath to speak. “Say what you will, but Caminus and our other neighbors took in our refugees but never took sides.”

“They couldn’t take sides,” Ultra Magnus said. “Legally. It was by all definition a civil war, and they couldn’t take sides in a civil war. It would be something else entirely if it had been an invasion by another sovereign power.”

“There’s something useful in having a neutral princess be the one to kill him,” Bumblebee said, nodding to Ultra Magnus. “I know she’s contracted to marry you, but she did have contact with the Autobots prior to this little siege. And now that Prime is gone, they’re slowly beginning to realize what a foolish venture this was, and how stupidly Prowl gambled with their lives. They’re ashamed.”

“There are typically two responses to shame,” Captain Barricade said, almost idly. “One is to scrub away all evidence of what has occurred, to remove the cause of that shame. The other is to simply pretend it didn’t happen and never speak of it again.” He tilted his head. “Which reaction is more likely from them?”

“They’re going to refocus their blame on Prowl and his poor decisions,” Bumblebee said. “It’s almost a good thing he’s vanished into the aether. The longer his disappearance goes on, the more the remaining Autobots can blame him, especially since they’re in a prison cell and he’s in the wind. It looks almost like he planned it this way.”

Starscream looked at Ravage. “I want to know where he is.”

Ravage nodded. 

“So then what do you recommend?” Starscream asked Bumblebee. He was getting tired, and his stomach was cramping, from hunger or pain he couldn’t tell. “I have two very persuasive people telling me to kill them.”

“You have over a thousand prisoners,” Bumblebee said quietly, “it would look bad to execute them all.”

“Public opinion,” Starscream said with some disgust. “So then just the ringleaders?”

“I propose,” Bumblebee said, his hands tightening on the top of his cane, “that you put the dilemma to them. Forswear the ideals that led them to make war in the middle of winter and they will live, admittedly far from here. If they do not, they face the sword. Some will choose it, but most would rather have a chance to live. Let them have the chance to escape via the poor decisions of their commanders and the pollution that accompanies a revenant. They will be grateful for their lives, even if they’ll hate you for it.”

“I don’t like it,” Ravage said immediately. “We know that Springer led away the Autobots who were uninterested in prosecuting Prowl’s prejudices any further. These are the ones who remained. Can we trust them not to try again?”

Bumblebee was ready to argue the point, and bitterly, but Starscream held up a hand. “Argue it in your own time and come up with a compromise that suits both of you before you present it to me. I don’t have the energy for it right now.” He leaned back against the pillows. “How did they get into the city?”

Ravage and Captain Barricade exchanged looks. “We have some suspicions, but we are still performing the investigation,” Captain Barricade said. “As soon as we have our initial conclusions, it will be in a report.”

“That’s acceptable, but I’d like your initial findings before the month is out.”

“Done,” Ravage said.

“And the cremation detail?”

Hook made a face. “The rain is making it a little difficult, but we have it going now. It will take several days.”

“Fine.” Starscream rubbed his eyes. “Food and medical supplies? Diplomatic communications?”

“We’re all right on food,” Thundercracker volunteered. “The greenhouses never stopped their production, and once the ground is warm enough, we can begin spring planting.”

“Talk to Windblade after she wakes up,” Starscream said, fighting a yawn. “There’s a massive seed vault under the palace. She knows how to get there. Can we begin trade negotiations to bring livestock and other agriculture, like flax and, I don’t know, apples?”

“In about a week, I’ll have the time to start drafting our declaration of victory and I can include an invitation to begin trade negotiations,” Thundercracker said. “We can work on them together at that time, but it’s not an immediate need.”

“You’re right,” Starscream agreed, “but I want it noted and logged.”

Thundercracker nodded. Starscream looked around at these people that he had somehow drawn around him, and they were the beginning of what would become his council. More formal organization would come in the next weeks and months, but for the interim, he could do worse than the people in front of him.

He scowled internally. He didn’t like feeling humbled.

“Now that we are no longer at war, we’ll need a new set of law codes, and soon,” Starscream told Ultra Magnus. “I know you’ve been working on something like that.”

Ultra Magnus flushed. “I should have a rough draft in a few days. They will need to be publicly debated, as well as what we would define as citizenship.”

“The people should get to have a say in their own governance,” Starscream said as he lost the battle not to yawn. “Once we have a draft we all agree on, we’ll post it publicly and invite public comment. It will be a headache and quite possibly the worst thing ever, but I will have them agree or they will quickly find a new ruler, one who will do what they want.” 

“All right,” Hook broke in, “all very lofty plans, but are there any other issues that need to be discussed right now?” He glared at everyone.

Everyone agreed that they could take a break for some sleep, and Starscream tried not to chuckle at Hook’s bossiness. “You deserve a hospital,” he mumbled once his rooms were clear of everyone except the healer, “you need people to order around.”

“Shh,” Hook said as he pulled the blankets around Starscream’s shoulders. “Get some sleep.”

“Giving your lord orders? That’s a quick way to…”

\--

_ March 30, 1037  
Iacon _

Paperwork, Starscream decided, was the bane of his life. He could do it and do it well, but that didn’t mean it was enjoyable or anything but nauseating. He couldn’t even go into the city to assist with clean-up and housing reorganization--his wounds were still healing and he could only manage two hours of rock-solid attention so far.

Paperwork was easier, just annoying.

The initial land survey had been completed, and the surveyors had mapped out the land around the city for fifty miles. The rain had stopped, and four days of gentle rain had soaked into the soil and refreshed the underground springs without flooding or soil erosion that typically went with four days of pouring rain. 

Now the land just had to be set into small parcels or something, but Starscream wanted to bring back the large grain fields and orchards that had helped to set up Iacon as such a powerful city-state before the war. Orchards would take fifteen to twenty years to mature, but with wheat, barley, and rice, they could have a crop by the fall.

But they needed other crops too--people could not survive by bread alone--and rice, at least, would require a certain amount of landscaping before it could be done. Then there were the weather concerns. Storms were always worse over open ground, with nothing to take the teeth out of them like mountains. They would need to create windbreaks with trees, but they had to be the right trees.

And his people were right in thinking they deserved some kind of reward for holding the city and serving him, if not loyally, for the past few years. Land was an excellent reward. Land, and titles. But titles hadn’t brought prewar Cybertron anything but class tensions.

He groaned and rested his head on his papers. Was it too late to advocate for some kind of collectivist commune?

At least the bed was soft. Everyone (well, Thundercracker, Chromia, Aileron, Red Alert, and himself) were taking their turns watching over the (still!) sleeping Windblade, and he had chosen the night shift. It was the only quiet part of his day. In an effort to keep himself awake, he was sitting in a chair at her bedside instead of sitting on the bed next to her, but he was fighting a losing battle there. Hook was all too happy to remind him that he had technically died and his body wasn’t over the shock yet.

He lifted his head and refocused on the survey maps. Maybe the best thing to do was to make some kind of declaration that the land within, oh, twenty miles of the city would be used to feed the city. Those who were willing to farm it would get free room and board, and maybe a set percentage on all the crops grown…? But they would need some kind of monetary income as well, for clothing and other necessities they didn’t eat. 

Starscream scratched the side of his head and despaired at the problem. 

There was a light touch to the top of his head, and he looked over to see that Windblade’s eyes were open, if only a little, and she was resting her right hand on top of his head. She smiled when their eyes met, and his spark expanded in his chest and made him feel a little lightheaded.

Right. He had forgotten that in all the chaos of the aftermath.

“Hi,” she whispered. Her voice came out as a croak, and her lips twisted a little in disgust.

“Hi,” he said. “Do you want something to drink?”

Instead of verbally responding, she nodded and moved her hand. He stood and found the pitcher of water he had been refilling his cup from, and in no time she was holding her cup and sipping it carefully. He noted how she winced after each swallow. “How much pain are you in?”

“Not bad,” she said, barely moving her mouth. 

“That means you’re in agony, doesn’t it?” he examined her carefully. “And we’re both on a limited diet, so I’m not sure that willow bark is allowed.”

“Cold will help,” she admitted quietly. “Numbing it.” It was hurting her too badly to speak in full sentences. He made a mental promise to himself to never get his face broken. He wasn’t sure he could survive an injury that wouldn’t let him talk.

“Give me a moment.” With the breaking of the curse, he was more aware of his magic than he had ever been, and he had experimented a little in the past few days, even though it only exhausted him further. He took the small towel that rested on the window and concentrated. Cold was easier to call up when he was feeling an emotion particularly strongly, and he glanced at her to get that same expanding feeling in his chest to move the cold along.

The towel promptly iced over. He gave it to her, and she pressed it to the left side of her face with a sigh. She gestured to the papers in a clear, unspoken question.

He sat down again. “We’ve had a land survey. I’m just trying to decide on a proposal for how to use it.”

She nodded. He was sure she would have a lot of thoughts, once her jaw allowed her to air them. Land and its management, from its workers to growth cycles and crops, were completely out of his knowledge and experience, and he didn’t have the inclination to learn them. There were other things he cared about. 

He picked up the papers to get them out of the way, and once her bed was clear, he climbed in next to her. She was still tired--strange how comas didn’t give that well-rested feeling--and once he was next to her, she leaned against him on her uninjured side. 

He started to play with her hair as he listed what Hook had told him about exercise, their diet, and how much all of that was the worst. He didn’t bother to tell her about the sudden blue streaks in her hair. Hook hadn’t seemed concerned about it, so until Hook told him to worry, he wouldn’t.

She hummed acknowledgement, likely to help him feel better more than anything else, and her eyes slowly slipped closed in the middle of his monologue. He watched her fall asleep and smiled to himself. 

It didn’t take him long to fall asleep himself.

\--

_ March 31, 1037  
Iacon _

Windblade woke up to the plinking sound of water hitting the closed windows of her room. She rubbed her eyes and started to push herself upright. Her left shoulder twinged and sent tremors of pain down her arm, and she paused. Right--she was recovering from a sword wound.

It took her longer than normal to be able to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. Her toes still worked, and when she stood up, her legs shook a little. It was because she hadn’t been upright for a few days, she knew. A few days of regular activity and her body would go back to normal.

A few wavering steps took her to the window, and when she swung it open, she saw the sky was the light grey of the perpetually raining. Darker rainclouds had a tendency to rain themselves out quickly, while lighter rainclouds stuck around. She reached out and let the rain fall into her hand. It was no longer Vector Sigma spring water, just typical rainwater, but she could still feel the life in it.

She rubbed the water between her fingertips before drying them on her sleeping robe. She could hear birds singing, and there were all the typical sounds of a city going to work. She could hear carts on the cobblestones, muffled chatter, and vendors calling out their wares. Life went on, despite the siege only a few days ago.

There was a quiet knock on the door, and she turned too quickly to answer it. She hissed through her teeth at the fresh twinges of pain from her left shoulder before shouting too loudly, “Come in!”

Chromia stepped through the door. It wouldn’t surprise Windblade in the least if her bodyguard hadn’t been sleeping in front of the door that connected the bedroom to the outer parlor. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Windblade echoed. “What time is it?”

“A little past ten, but Hook and Red Alert both said that your sleep will be thrown off because of your recovery and to let you sleep as much as you can.”

“So glad to have medical approval,” Windblade replied dryly. She looked up at Chromia, and saw the line that crossed Chromia’s right cheek under her eye. “Your eye.”

Chromia’s fingers came up to touch the line, and then she shrugged. “A flesh wound. Not important enough to be healed. I did insist that the nurse with the best suture ability take of it. I didn’t want to have a nastier scar than necessary.”

Windblade looked up at Chromia, and before she could hold them back, she started to cry. Alarm flashed over Chromia’s face before she did the obvious thing and reached out to hug Windblade. “It’s all right,” Chromia said in her ear. “My other injuries were as superficial as this one.”

That only made Windblade cry harder. To know that Chromia had had injuries and Windblade hadn’t known about them or even been able to tend them herself...Chromia had gotten herself involved in this fight on Windblade’s behalf. It wasn’t a Camien fight. Chromia had fought for Windblade and she had gotten hurt and could have died.

“Shh,” Chromia mumbled. “It’s all right, I promise.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” Windblade managed. The anger that had marked her during her fight with the false Prime swept back over her. She wasn’t used to feeling so angry, and she gently pushed Chromia to arm’s length so that she could get herself under control. “This wasn’t your fight.”

“No, but it was yours,” Chromia said. “That makes it mine.” She grinned. “Besides, it was nice to finally beat on someone. State-sanctioned carnage is the best.”

“You’re so violent,” Windblade hiccuped as Chromia’s humor caught her between a sob and a giggle. 

“Someone has to be.” Chromia assessed her. “You got hit harder than I did.”

Windblade flinched at the memory of a mailed fist hitting her in the face. “Er--yes.” Starscream was all right, she had seen him, “Ravage?”

“Fit to be tied, but fine. She’s working with Captain Barricade to figure out how the Autobot assassins got through security. Red Alert’s helping them.”

“Red Alert! Is she all right, I saw her after you two brought her in, she looked awful.”

“To be fair, most of that wasn’t her blood,” Chromia assured her. “Let’s see--Thundercracker got an arrow to the side, but it missed anything important, so he’s on a similar schedule to Starscream right now--rest and paperwork. Marissa’s taken over the city command while Thundercracker and Starscream get their legs back. Damn,” Chromia added in tones of deepest admiration, “that lady can fight. Not one wasted move. I don’t know what the Discordancy Commonwealth is like to teach her to fight like that, but I sure would like to recruit a few more.”

“Aileron?”

“Aileron’s fine too--she helped manage the city organization to get the most vulnerable to shelter, but, Windblade, there’s something I need to tell you about her.”

Chromia hesitated, and that was all Windblade needed to know. “She’s spying for Caminus, isn’t she.”

“Apparently a scribe is a better spy than anyone else.” Chromia’s eyes were steady. “I can make her disappear, blame it on the chaos.”

For one moment, Windblade wanted to say, _yes, do it_. She didn’t want to be a pawn in anyone else’s game anymore. She wanted to run her own game, and that didn’t involve employing a spy.

Then the moment passed. “No, let her live. I would tell--no, don’t. Give me time to figure out what to do with her.”

Chromia nodded. 

“And Tracks? Is he a spy too?”

“Him!” Chromia snorted. “No. He’s anxious to start working with you, though. He thinks that if you’re left to your own devices, you’ll start dressing like a Cybertronian.”

Windblade laughed as she wiped her face on her sleeve. “Oh, to have his priorities. Bumblebee? Jazz?”

“Jazz is still here, albeit grudgingly, and Bumblebee spends a lot of time sequestered with what’s becoming the main council. As soon as you can, I’d get on those councils so they won’t think of you as just the consort.”

“As soon as I can,” Windblade agreed. “Anything else I should know about?”

Chromia hesitated. “There’s, well, there’s two things. Number one, I think Red Alert wants to talk to you, but outside of all of, well, this,” she gestured to Windblade’s rooms. “She’s been working practically nonstop but I think she’s really upset by what happened.”

Chromia’s emotional intelligence wasn’t the greatest, so if Red Alert was slipping enough to show her upset to Chromia, she could really use a break.

Windblade took a careful, shuddering breath. “Right. Okay. I need to get dressed, and then could you see if she could meet me in the private family courtyard? We should have enough privacy there.”

“The only seating space is right in the middle of the empty courtyard,” Chromia said. “How is that private?”

“No one will be able to hear us,” Windblade said. “And the second thing?”

Chromia towed her over the mirror. “You should really see for yourself.”

In the mirror, Windblade saw that her face was very colorful, all blues and purples with only the faintest hints of green and yellow. She opened her mouth to ask why she needed to see her bruises, but then her eyes fell on her hair. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Chromia said grimly. “The hair at your temples has gone blue.”

Windblade picked up an electric blue lock in disbelief. “I don’t--.” She closed her eyes. “The spark energy.”

“What spark energy?” 

“I had to take out the false Prime’s spark and imprison it,” Windblade said absently as she reopened her eyes to better examine the cosmetic changes. “There’s lore in the Temple that prolonged exposure to spark energy can...change you. This wasn’t what I thought it meant.”

“Maybe it does mean something else,” Chromia didn’t sound happy about it, “but that’s the only clue so far.”

“What a delightful notion,” Windblade sighed and dropped her hair. “Will you help me style it so that it doesn’t show? I’m not ready to have it publicly known yet.”

“Yeah,” Chromia said as she picked up a brush from the vanity table. “No problems.”

\--

“There,” Captain Chromia pointed to the bench in the middle of the stone yard. “She’s waiting for you.”

Red Alert smoothed down her work dress. She had given up her smock at the hospital, and she missed it as she picked her way across the gravel of the unfinished courtyard. The princess was waiting for her, and Red Alert took a moment to admire a princess who work a work dress as simple as hers, even though her hair was twisted into its usual complexity. The princess’ work during the siege and its corresponding events had impressed Red Alert; it was a shame she was noble.

The princess stood as Red Alert came close. “I’m sorry I didn’t do more for you,” the princess said as she reached out to grasp Red Alert’s hands. Red Alert let her; the princess’ hands were always comfortably warm. “I knew you had been injured, but everything was such a mess that I couldn’t do more at the time, and for that, I am sorry.”

“It’s all right, my lady princess,” Red Alert said as the princess had her sit. “Hook would have done the same.”

“Still,” the princess demurred. “Are you all right? Not just physically. My guard has informed me what she and Ravage found when they went to find you. That must have been--terrifying.”

Terrifying was only one word for it. Red Alert’s memory of what exactly had happened was fractured--she remembered the supposedly injured Autobots jumping out of bed, the sharp silver of the weapons they carried, how they had howled “Traitor!” at her, and then darkness.

No, she remembered their knives at her throat-- _in_ her throat--but after that, she remembered blessedly little. “My memory is not clear,” Red Alert said.

The princess picked up her hands again. “I’m sorry,” she said again, and this time, she wasn’t apologizing for her lack of reaction to Red Alert’s injuries. “I wish…”

“We all wish,” Red Alert said, a little too sharply. She sighed. “My apologies, my lady. I’m trying not to think about it.”

“Is that the way to manage it?” the princess asked quietly. “I’ve found that my own trauma will make itself known in one way or another.”

“It’s easier to work and ignore it,” Red Alert admitted. “I’ll have to deal with it eventually, but right now there’s so much to do that I can’t engage with it. I just--.” She looked away from the princess, anger swamping her briefly.

“What is it?” inquired the princess with a concerned twist of her mouth.

With an effort, Red Alert brought herself under control. “It’s just that--they called me a traitor. That is…”

“Untrue?” the princess offered.

Red Alert laughed once. “No, it’s true enough, but I didn’t switch my colors. I left because as a healer, I have a duty to serving life, and I could see that the Autobots no longer stood for some grand ideal, but rather just to kill as many Decepticons as possible. The same was true for Decepticons--Lord Starscream can confirm it--and there were people who were victims of both sides and needed a healer. When Lord Starscream overthrew Megatron at last, the people I cared for came back to Iacon, and I came with them. When it was clear Lord Starscream was more invested in his people than warfare, I stayed. My colors stayed--their meaning changed.”

“What was the original ideal of the Autobots?” the princess asked. “I never heard the full story.”

Red Alert was able to smile--a small smile, but a smile. “The Decepticons accused us of upholding the Senate, and it’s true that those who wore the Autobot colors started out with upholding the Senate’s regime. But that changed when Optimus became a Prime. He was...I heard him speak in person twice before the war, and he could just sweep you off your feet. He saw a different world, one where the Senate stood for truth and justice and equality, and he wanted to make it true. He wanted to treat with the Decepticons, allow them representation, invest in their communities. The Senate was against Optimus, but not officially, since he was a Prime. When he had a very public meeting with Megatron against their wishes, they tried to strip him of his status. That did not go well.”

“I can imagine,” the princess agreed.

“Primes had been chosen by Primus originally,” Red Alert went on, “but as Primus drew back, the Senate chose them. They thought they could strip his status, but Optimus became a different kind of Prime. He became the People’s Prime. They chose him, and the Senate couldn’t touch him without incurring the peoples’ wrath. We thought maybe, just maybe, he was the one who could reform everything.”

“But then…” the princess said.

“Then Megatron had the Senate massacred, in their own halls. Lord Starscream did it. At first, we thought that Megatron betrayed Vos by turning Lord Starscream over to the ‘justice’ of the Senate, but all trials like that were closed, no press or witnesses allowed. It was supposed to prevent a riot from the Decepticon sympathizers in the city. Optimus Prime spoke against the trial, he said it was unjust to try Lord Starscream for treason when he had been protecting his people, but he was ignored.” Red Alert sighed. “When the doors closed, we all thought that they were going through their usual trial procedures. Instead, Lord Starscream killed them all.”

The princess swallowed. “H-how many senators?”

“Over two hundred,” Red Alert replied. “No one knows how he did it without a scratch. After he massacred them, Megatron rode through the gates and announced that the Senate was dead, and that our time of liberation was at hand. There were plenty of people who thought that Megatron had a point, but that massacring the Senate the way he had was the wrong way to do it. They should have been removed from power and put on trial, to show the power of our justice. It was from that decision that the Autobot faction was born.”

“And the rest is history,” the princess murmured.

Red Alert nodded. “I went where I was needed,” she said. “I saw the horrors firsthand. I tended to the injured in the wake of the destruction of Praxus, it was enough to make me hate Decepticons forever, but...,” she hesitated, before she said, “and then I tended to the prisoners after the second Siege of Kaon. No one wins in warfare. It was so stupid and such a waste. I wanted a way out. I found one, and I’m still dealing with that kind of stupidity.”

“I’m glad you’re alive,” the princess said. “Even though it is stupid and wasteful, I’m glad you’re here to complain about it.”

Red Alert paused, a little discombobulated. “You are now,” she said, recovering, “but bet you won’t be in a little bit. I can complain a lot more.”

The princess smiled. “I doubt you could complain so much I wish you weren’t alive.”

Red Alert smiled back. Sometimes she forgot the princess had a sense of humor. “I can test that,” she offered.

The princess laughed. “You are more than welcome to try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me your thoughts! The next chapter is going to be kind of a sweeping epilogue. Sex happens!


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last chapter of frozen heart! This whole thing has been a wonderful journey. I'm not ready to leave this world behind--I promise there's more coming. After all, we have to find out what happened with Pharma and what's going on with Elita-1. 
> 
> Your comments have been an utter godsend. This story has accompanied some of the most difficult times of my life, and your comments kept me going when I was stuck. It really does mean a lot.

**CHAPTER 30: MOVING FORWARD**

* * *

 

_April 20, 1037  
Iacon_

Metalhawk, formerly of Polyhex but now Metalhawk of Nowhere-In-Bloody-Particular, waited impatiently outside the city gates. He had announced himself and his people to the over-attentive gate guard, and now they were keeping him waiting, _deliberately_. He had children and livestock in the train behind him, and sometime soon both groups would decide to desert. The animals could be controlled, but good luck getting the children back.

The gates swung open, and Metalhawk straightened in the saddle. He blew on his horn--a caravan of five hundred people couldn’t be moved by one shout--and started his horse forward.

He was displeased to see that the guards were gesturing him towards a large tent encampment. The city was up the hill for another two miles, but he was sure if he tried to lead his caravan to the city instead of the tents that there would be consequences. For crying out loud, _why?_

His angry grumbling was met by several guards and a few healers in long smocks. One of the healers was clearly in charge--they were giving orders to the guards for how to separate the caravan and check for any kind of illness or injury, and Metalhawk swelled with indignation. “My people are not _sick_ ,” he snapped.

The healer and guards turned toward him. The guards looked normal, albeit with face masks and linen gloves, but the healer had twisting white tattoos that spiraled over their temples and down their cheeks, where it was hidden by a face mask. He couldn’t see their hair color; it was covered by a cap. “We are certain that your people are not intentionally harboring an illness,” the healer said. It was clear they were trying to appease him, and he flushed with anger. He had kept his people safe in the south for over fifteen years, and now this person was trying to tell him how he did his job! “But unfortunately, we recently underwent a disease outbreak and so in the interest of your people and ours, we want to check for any signs of illness before it can be carried into the city. If there are any injuries, we’ll do what we can for them.” Their eyes crinkled, a sign they were smiling.

Metalhawk was not fooled. He knew what they were accusing him of.

His second-in-command, Nightra, touched his elbow. “Let them do their job,” she recommended quietly. “You would do the same in their place.”

Metalhawk scowled, but he knew she had a point. He was bad-tempered with the chill and ongoing hunger. They hadn’t been entirely rude, yet. Once they were, he could be rude in return. “Fine.”

The healer’s eyes closed in further crinkles. “Excellent. I see that some of your people are carrying. May we examine them first?”

With poor grace, Metalhawk allowed the healers to sort his people. Fifteen were carrying--they had announced their pregnancies before they left the south for Iacon, but they were early enough that the travel hadn’t been too terrible. Of the ones who had been further along, they had given birth on the road. After the currently-carrying, the new babies and their mothers would be checked, then the children, then everyone else.

Metalhawk watched as the tent encampment became a hive of activity. One healer and two guards left the tent, and one of his people came to report that the healer was checking the animals. That one, he approved of. The livestock could have picked up something on the road. They were doing their best, but they couldn’t account for everything.

The tattooed healer was everywhere, checking in with the healers running each group check, and after they had been working for over an hour, Metalhawk’s nose informed him that they had brought out lunch and were serving those who had already been checked. The children were excited at that. They had been living on road rations and hot, fresh soup was worth cheering for.

Metalhawk refused to bend. They cared for children, so what? Anyone with sense would care for children.

One of the children was brought into a small cubicle with canvas walls, and a curtain was drawn across. He watched carefully--that child was one the caravan had adopted, because she was a war orphan. He had looked out for her since she had joined them over a year ago, and Nightra had made sure the child had gotten her share of food, water, and clothing. He thought the child might have been thirteen-- _she_ didn’t remember.

The healer came out and made a beeline for the healer in charge. Metalhawk shifted on his feet as the healer whispered in the tattooed healer’s ear, and then they both disappeared into the cubicle. He didn’t like that. That didn’t look good.

When the tattooed healer came out, their eyes were crinkling in a smile behind their mask. He relaxed slightly, but just enough to modify his tone from a demand to a request as he crossed the tent to grab their arm. “What was that about?”

The healer looked down at his hand and then back up. Metalhawk didn’t release them. 

“You’ll want to let go of me,” the healer said.

“Oh?” he demanded.

The healer nodded to two of the guards, who were watching with hostility. “They don’t appreciate you touching me.”

Metalhawk swallowed and let them go. “What’s going on with Quickshadow?”

“She had a few questions she wasn’t comfortable asking you,” the healer told him. “Nothing to worry about.”

“ _What_ was she asking about?”

The healer’s face hardened. “That’s her business. I respect her privacy. If she wishes to tell you, she will. If you’ll excuse me--.”

“If it’s about her safety,” Metalhawk started, but one of the healers came up to interrupt them.

“My lady princess, you’re needed. One of the patients is,” their eyes flicked to Metalhawk and then away, “you’re just needed.”

“Of course,” the healer replied, and Metalhawk caught himself before he gaped. _Princess?_ What princess was willing to get her hands dirty?

When he glanced at the guards, they were smirking at him, and just like that, his bad temper returned. No wonder they had watched the princess so carefully.

And since when did Cybertron have princesses, anyway?

\--

Windblade took off her cap to dab at her forehead with a cloth. Heat didn’t normally bother her, but in the tent encampment, the air was too still for even the slightest breeze. They could thank the city walls for  that. She needed some air, so Windblade pulled off her mask and walked out of the main tent into the fresh air. 

She understood that Metalhawk and his second had done their best for their people, but the questions she had been fielding about reproductive health, contraception, nutrition, and disease prevention had sparked her temper. They weren’t doing _enough._

She inhaled deeply as she battled her temper. They were valid questions, and she had hidden her temper at the asking to keep from offending or frightening the askers, but she wasn’t used to feeling so angry at nothing. Why was she suddenly walking a razor’s edge? It wouldn’t have bothered her a month ago.

“Hello, darling,” Starscream’s arm slipped around her waist and tugged her in so that he could kiss her cheek. “Have time for lunch?”

She leaned into his hold in appreciation of the rare physical affection. “You didn’t come all the way down here just to have lunch with me,” she chided. 

“You _wound_ me,” he said in her ear. Goosebumps prickled her skin at the puff of air over her ear, but she bit her tongue. They both hadn’t been cleared for sex yet. He was taunting her, and it was unfair. “I can’t want to have lunch with my betrothed?”

“I’m sure that’s your excuse,” she said, amused, “but you’re really here to see if you have any competition.”

He sighed and nuzzled her neck. The bruises around her eye had finally gone down, but she was still tender. “Well?” he mumbled.

She didn’t laugh, only because she wanted to protect his dignity. “Their leader is someone named Metalhawk. From what I understand, he’s been the leader of their band for the past fifteen years. He got them to safety in the south, and as soon as he got word it was safe to come back to Iacon, he led them back. He seems permanently grumpy, but I can’t tell if that’s his actual personality or his tiredness talking. He might be up for challenging you, but not until his people are good and settled.”

“Hm,” Starscream said.

“I’d get him on the Council,” she offered, “just to keep an eye on him. It will also help integrate his group into the city if they feel their leader has a role in running it.”

He kissed her cheek again, pausing just long enough for her to feel him blink. She barely managed not to shiver. He was being so _rude_. “You’re so smart,” he drawled.

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve already thought of it.”

“Well, I have to find out your thoughts _somehow_.” Starscream turned serious as he let her go. “How did he respond to you?”

“Like how most people respond to me when they don’t know my reputation,” she said. “He’s not sure if I’m a threat yet or not. He’s already tried to get me to break a patient’s privacy for him. I refused. It was either a test or he now hates me. We’ll see in a little bit.”

“Have you told him just _who_ you are?” 

“No,” Windblade admitted. “He knows I’m a princess. I think he thinks that means you’ve set up a royal family and he’s building up a good bit of populist steam against it in his head.”

“Oh, that would be _fun_ ,” Starscream said with delight. “Should I let him, you think?”

“Please don’t cause more problems that I’ll have to solve,” she begged.

“Isn’t that what marriage is?” Starscream tucked her hand inside his arm. “Well, I suppose it can’t wait forever. Introduce me.”

“Right away, my liege,” she said dryly. She led him back into the tent where Metalhawk had finally consented to a nurse looking him over. He got to his feet as they approached him--Windblade realized she had removed her mask and cap and he was looking at her the way everyone looked at her lately--and they stopped right in front of him. “Master Metalhawk,” she said formally, “may I present Lord Starscream of Cybertron, recently re-elected to his post?”

Metalhawk bowed. “Lord Starscream.”

“Well done,” Starscream murmured in Windblade’s ear, before he cleared his throat. “My lady is too modest. She is the Princess Windblade of Caminus and my betrothed.” He turned to her, and it was only the glint in his eye that told her he was planning on being an imp. “We should really set a date, dear heart. ‘Wife’ sounds so much more final than ‘betrothed.’”

“I believe that is on purpose,” Windblade said tactfully.

“Of Caminus?” Metalhawk’s eyes were reassessing her. He had relaxed at the admission that Cybertron was not a monarchy, but a foreign-born wife had put him right on edge again.

“Well, technically,” Starscream said casually. “She’s now a Cybertronian citizen. We signed the papers and everything. There might have been a riot if we hadn’t!” He laughed once. “She’s very popular with my people.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Windblade said.

“Oh please. She’s well-known in the city as a gardner and healer, and she sits on the Council with me and my other ministers. She’s more approachable than I am.”

She knew what he was doing, and he wasn’t being subtle about it. Starscream picked up her hand and brushed a kiss to the top of it. “My dear, do you have patients to tend?”

Windblade held in the instinctive urge to roll her eyes. He was so _transparent_. Well, maybe that was good. He wasn’t threatening Metalhawk, even if he saw Metalhawk as someone to manipulate and jerk around. She could leave them alone and they would _probably_ play nice.

“Come see me when you’re done,” Windblade told Starscream. “I have some requests to be taken to the main hospital.”

Starscream bowed with a theatrical flourish, and she turned to go back to her patients. If she managed to step on his foot on her way, oops.

Starscream turned back to Metalhawk. “So I understand you have been leading your people for the last fifteen years.”

“Yes,” Metalhawk said. 

Starscream waited, and then asked, more pointedly, “What caused you to lead them?”

“Typical transfer of power--the original leader died of nervous fever. My people took a vote and decided on me.”

And how many other candidates were there, Starscream was tempted to ask, but he could see that Metalhawk was on the edge of his temper and it wouldn’t serve in this moment to provoke him. “And you took them to the South--how far south?”

Metalhawk’s fingers tapped his thigh before he calmed himself. “About three hundred miles down the coast. It was a good place for us, but it was never home. When we heard about the defeat of the Autobots--.”

“Yes, that’s my next question,” Starscream interrupted. “ _When_ did you hear about it, and from whom? It was only three weeks ago, give or take a few days.” 500 people and a full caravan of animals would have taken about that time to travel 300 miles, presuming they hadn’t sailed part of the way. 

“A courier that passed through our outpost on the way to Navitas told us,” Metalhawk said. “It was a little over two and half weeks ago.” Right, Thundercracker had sent out those messages. “We travel fast.”

“Clearly,” Starscream said.

Metalhawk sighed. “We’re all war refugees who refused to pick a side, since both were terrible. We did the best we could do and got out. Are you really going to tell me that we can’t stay?”

“I never said that,” Starscream shrugged. “I will have to present your case to the Council, and no doubt they’ll wish to take some of your own testimony, but Iacon is open.”

“Wish we didn’t have to go through the quarantine,” Metalhawk grumbled.

Starscream raised both brows. “Oh trust me,” he said with perfect sweetness, “you’d rather have the quarantine than any of the _other_ options. Excuse me.”

Windblade was giving a patient some kind of tincture, and he waved to her to show that he was ready for her. She finished with her patient and came to his side, an anonymous healer except for her spiral tattoos. “Well?” she asked through the mask.

“He seems reasonable enough.” Starscream hesitated for a moment before he added, “I think he heralds a grand return of war refugees. This tent encampment may need to be more permanent.”

She looked around. “Not a bad idea,” she admitted, “but I need to spend time with the farmers too. I’ve shown Thundercracker how to get to the seed vault.”

“And I need you in the Council this afternoon,” he said as he touched her elbow. 

He saw how pleased she was with the casual affection, and it warmed his chest a little. “Why?”

“Captain Barricade and Ravage have the results of their investigation into how the Autobot SpecOps team got in, and you’re...involved.”

She reared back. “You can’t possibly think--!”

“No,” he said, “and no one does. But you need to hear it. Can you get away from here in about an hour?”

She looked around. “I think so, but someone will need to take my place.”

“That, I can arrange. I can count on you?”

She couldn’t kiss his cheek or anything like that, not with her mask on, so she settled for squeezing his hand. “Always.”

\--

The Council was, for the moment, meeting in what was slowly becoming the main library. The books Caminus had sent were on the shelves, but they looked terribly lonely. Windblade made a mental note to reach out to Airazor and Tigatron to see if they could send her copies from the libraries they frequented in Eukaris. Eukarian poetry was some of the most beautiful poetry she’d ever read.

Once the library was more of a library instead of a sad collection of titles on three shelves, they would move to a different room, but it worked for the moment. Windblade nodded to the servant--she recognized them, Swift--and offered her cup for some tea.

The Council filed in until the round table was completely full. Ravage sat next to her with a wink, and then Captain Barricade sat opposite them with Ultra Magnus. Thundercracker and Marissa strolled in together arm-in-arm, and then Bumblebee came in. Finally, Starscream entered the room--dramatically late--and everyone settled in.

She would need to tell him he had missed his calling. Clearly, the stage was the right place for him.

“Well then,” Starscream said. “Captain Barricade, Ravage--report.”

Captain Barricade stood and unfolded his papers to withdraw a page full of handwritten notes. “After an extensive investigation with both the civil enforcement and Intelligence operatives working together, we have found the leak that allowed the SpecOps agents inside.” His voice was dry and unwavering, but he pulled together a picture that made Windblade ill. 

There were several guards between the two gates. The agents had taken advantage of the white flag for injury treatment to get past the first gate, and then used the other injured soldiers in the field hospital to get uniforms to pass to the inner gate.

Starscream stirred at that. “Aren’t our inner gate guards supposed to double-check who was coming and going and missing?”

“Yes, my lord, that was the problem. One of the guards, Deadlift, was found dead with a slit throat and an Autobot coin in his pocket. After careful examination of the corpse, we found that he had been killed from the front, and although his pockets had been picked, the Autobot coin had been left behind.”

Windblade cleared her throat. “Pardon my ignorance, but how does the angle of the killing stroke matter?”

Ravage turned to her. “If he’d been killed by someone trying to hide their arrival, he would have been killed from behind. He would have been grabbed and his mouth and nose covered, to keep him from making a noise, and then the drag of the knife would have been from left to right, presuming his killer was right-handed. He wouldn’t have been paid with Autobot gold, either. Instead, what probably happened was that he spotted someone he had been spying for, and after he had been paid, his throat was slit from right to left. We can’t trust how we found his body, since looters had gone over it, but I’m willing to guess that he fell on his outstretched hand that held the gold. It would have been a good way to distract him.”

“Oh.” Windblade weighed her next question, and decided she already looked like a fool, what was one more question. “Why didn’t the agent keep the gold?”

“They wanted us to know how they got in,” Starscream said. “If something went wrong and they didn’t win, they wanted us to be demoralized. If they had won, it wouldn’t have mattered. They lost, and no one stole the Autobot gold because they didn’t wanted to be implicated in the attack.”

Captain Barricade cleared his throat. “Yes, those were the conclusions we drew as well. When we began to investigate Deadlift, we found that there had been a complaint lodged against him by you, my lady princess.”

Windblade blinked. “What? I never lodged a complaint.”

“I believe the injury of a small child was the content of the complaint,” Captain Barricade offered.

The pieces slipped into place. “It was Rider’s father? That was who had injured him?”

“In that child’s defense, Deadlift was not his biological progenitor,” Captain Barricade said stiffly, “but rather the paramour of his widowed mother. That complaint was not investigated as it should have been, my lady, and I apologize for that. My team was so busy investigating potential leaks that we forgot a cardinal rule of this kind of work. Abuse of spouses and children are the biggest red flags for further violent behavior.”

“Where is Rider and his mother now?” Windblade demanded. 

“Currently in protective custody. She swears she didn’t know about it, she only thought he was acting suspiciously because he had a drinking problem, and to be fair to her, he _did_ have a drinking problem.” Ravage wrinkled her nose. “Drink brings out the devil inside.”

“So we’ll list you as a vote in favor in temperance,” Starscream said. 

Windblade ignored him. “Protective custody doesn’t mean prison, does it?”

“No,” Ravage said. “Besides all other moral matters, children don’t belong in prisons. We do mean protective custody, though. Our investigation wasn’t exactly, hm, _nonspecific._ Her neighbors threatened vandalism and worse. They didn’t want there to be the taint of treason in their neighborhood.”

“Wasn’t she a launderer?” Windblade asked. “I presumed that was why she had the iron in question.”

“Most people have irons, my lady,” Ultra Magnus said, “but yes, she is a launderer. Why does that matter?”

“Because Thundercracker and I have been working on staffing this palace, and we happen to be in need of launderers,” Windblade said. “In Caminus and most other places, the palace is a major employer because of how much staff it takes to have merely a functioning palace. I’d like to hire her, if she is indeed innocent of his espionage.”

“She is, but,” Ravage hesitated, “I’m not certain this will be taken in the spirit it’s intended.”

“I can ride it out,” Windblade said flatly. “If her neighbors are turning on her, that’s a good part of her income gone, and with a child to raise, she needs something steady. And I can take Rider as my page when he’s old enough.”

“We can discuss matters of employment later,” Starscream said, returning the conversation to its original tracks. “Was he the only one?”

“No,” Captain Barricade said, “but they were all low-level informants. He was only told about it in advance because he guarded the door. We’re in the process of weeding out the rest now.”

“What Captain Barricade is not saying is that there is going to be no small amount of chaos in the Autobot Intelligence Corps. for the next year, if not years,” Bumblebee interjected. “They won’t know who to report to or even if they’ll continue to be paid. If they are as low-level as the Captain says, I would recommend leaving them alone but keeping a watch on their correspondence. They will want to keep themselves and their families safe first before they stick their neck out for a dying faction. Give them that chance.”

Ravage and Starscream exchanged looks, and then Starscream shrugged. “As long as they are watched carefully.” He brightened. “Perhaps hire _them_ as launderers!”

“You’re not funny,” Windblade told him.

He reached out to take her hand. “Darling, I’m hilarious.”

“How does this impact what security the gates have going forward?” Ultra Magnus inquired, ignoring the both of them. She didn’t blame him in the slightest.

This question, Windblade could field, at least a little bit. “The arrival of Metalhawk’s caravan tells us something that we should have considered prior to this. With the official end of the war, more  émigrés will be returning to Iacon. We have set up the beginnings of a quarantine hospital, and in the ten days or so of quarantine, I believe we can investigate the returning  émigrés to be sure they are not a danger.” She sighed. “Doubtless some will be informants, but I do not believe we should completely stop them. Nothing makes our neighbors nervous like a quiet city. They will begin to suspect things.”

“I agree with the princess,” Captain Barricade said. “And the influx of new people will assist in all areas of civic life.”

“Well, aren’t you hopeful,” Starscream drawled.

Windblade kicked him under the table, and he fluttered his fingertips at her. “If they have healers, I want them recruited now, not next week. As for security...Captain, will we need to host a recruiting drive for you?”

“I could use more people,” Captain Barricade admitted. “But crime has not been a big problem up to this point.”

“No, there was something else to worry about,” Starscream said. “Ravage, can you write up the report in appropriate legal language? I want to publish it as a paper into how this war happened.”

Windblade stiffened. “How _this_ war happened?” she asked tightly.

Starscream looked at her. “This whole long mess of war. This was its last battle. It deserves to be commemorated--well, not commemorated per se, but rather dissected and the flesh stripped from its bones so we can understand just what happened so we’re not this stupid next time.”

She relaxed slightly. She wasn’t ready for Elita’s part in it to be public yet. If it was published internationally, hopefully Elita’s actions would be obscured.

“I can do that,” Ravage said, “but you’ve got a ton of research to do.”

“When winter comes, I’ll have time.” Starscream straightened. “I applaud your ability to summarize,” he told Captain Barricade. “This wasn’t a waste of time!”

Windblade closed her eyes. He had been--playful, almost, lately, but it was like he didn’t know the difference between playing and being insulting. Or maybe he did, she corrected as Starscream’s smirk inched toward a full grin, and just didn’t care.

The meeting moved from the investigation debrief to what the city needed to keep running in the immediate aftermath of a crisis. Windblade didn’t contribute much--her presence said enough--but she was considering the problem of the land outside the gates. The crux of the question, she felt, was where the public land of the city ended and what could be considered ‘private’ land began. It would be easier if Iacon was a port city; territorial waters were very clearly defined. 

She would need to talk to Ultra Magnus. His encyclopedic knowledge of the Tyrest Accord and prewar land use laws would be a helpful guidepost. 

As the meeting broke up, she rose with Ravage. She had just enough time to play with Victorion for half an hour before she needed to return to the quarantine. It would refresh her.

“My lady?” Windblade turned to look at Captain Barricade with a small smile.

“Captain,” she said, “you did good work.”

“I--thank you, my lady.” He bowed, a little awkward in such a short distance between them, and he said, “I am sorry for our failure to fully investigate the complaint you lodged.”

She laid a hand on his arm. “Captain, I understand. It was a troubling, chaotic time and everyone was doing the best they could.”

He dropped his eyes. “I just wish we could have done more.”

She wasn’t sure how to respond, and it didn’t seem appropriate to retract her hand, although she wanted to. She glanced around frantically for someone to provide an escape. Chromia was happy to do it. “My lady,” Chromia said from the door, “I have need of you.”

Windblade snatched her hand back from the Captain. “Yes, thank you,” she said. “Pardon me, Captain.” 

“Was he about to make a move?” Chromia asked in an undertone as she led Windblade away. “Because Starscream will kill him.”

“No, he was just grieving,” Windblade replied. “Where are we going?”

“I found a smith who can create a contraception charm for you,” Chromia told her. “Very discreet, she does charms like this all the time.”

“Oh good,” Windblade said. “I was beginning to fear.”

“Like you’d be stupid,” Chromia snorted. “Come on.”

The smith had a small shop in the artisan district. Nothing in the shop window alluded to what kind of charms she sold, but Windblade noted they were all silver. Silver was better for contraceptive charms than gold, since gold was an attracting metal and silver purified. 

The smith’s named was Steelcast, and she was pleased to see Windblade and Chromia. “My lady princess, it honors me that you have chosen my shop.”

Windblade disregarded that. “I understand that you are discreet?”

“Always,” Steelcast assured her. She perched on the edge of her worktable. “Why don’t you tell me what you need?”

“Something I can wear all the time without anyone noting it,” Windblade said immediately. “With some kind of cloaking charm so it won’t be apparent.”

Steelcast lifted a small notepad and pen to make notes. “What was your last one?”

“A circular hair pin that was flush against my scalp,” Windblade said. “It was small and it went unnoticed.”

“I’m not very good at hair ornaments,” Steelcast admitted. 

“It doesn’t have to be a hair ornament,” Windblade assured her. “Just something small and discreet.”

“Hm,” Steelcast murmured. There were a few more scratches of her pencil against her notepad, and then she turned it around to show Windblade.

Windblade leaned closer to examine it. It was a looped and braided ring. “Will that be enough?” she asked.

Steelcast nodded. “I can fit it to your fourth finger, and part of the braid will be white gold, to hold the illusion, well, not _illusion_ exactly, more like a ‘don’t see’. But white gold looks like silver, if a little brighter, so if anyone does see it they’ll think it’s just a ring.”

Windblade was nodding before Steelcast finished. “How long will this take?”

Steelcast hummed and turned her notepad back around. “Probably around three or four days. Braiding the silver and white gold will take a little bit of time, and they’ll need to set. I also, uh,” she cleared her throat, “I need something of you to key the ring to you. Normally, I wouldn’t, but your magic…”

Windblade examined the smith a little more carefully. “You have the Sight?”

“Very little,” Steelcast admitted. “It’s from my father’s line. It doesn’t do much except help me fit the magic to what I create. Your magic resists contraceptives, I can see that, so it has to be tied to you specifically. I’m guessing your hair pin was?”

“No--wait, I think it was.” Windblade frowned as she thought. It had been a gift from the Mother Superior on her twenty-first birthday, but before that, the Mother Superior had asked for one of Windblade’s hairs for a ‘protective charm.’ Since it was coming from the Mother Superior, Windblade hadn’t questioned it. “Hair, nails, or blood?”

Steelcast made a face. “Blood ruins the metal. Hair is better.”

Without missing a beat, Windblade selected and removed a single strand of hair with a slight flash of pain. She ignored it as she looped the long strand around her fingers before offering it to Steelcast. “I, Windblade of Caminus and Iacon, give this, a lock of my hair, to you for the express purpose of creating a contraceptive charm that will be bound to me,” Windblade recited. It was an old spell, a safeguard from the times when giving up a piece of yourself could have disastrous consequences. “If this hair should be turned against me, may it burn up in your hands.”

Steelcast’s eyes flashed with understanding as she took the knotted piece of hair. “I, Steelcast of Altihex and Iacon, do accept this lock of hair and I vow by Primus and Solus the Smith that it will be used for a contraceptive charm alone. May my forge burn if I lie.”

The air popped with the scent of hot metal--a sign the agreement had been heard and witnessed--before it returned to the smoke and ash that had marked it. Windblade and Steelcast smiled at each other. “I hadn’t thought Cybertronians recognized Solus,” Windblade said.

“Smiths do,” Steelcast replied. “It’s to our peril if we don’t. All smiths have her sign above our door to show our trade.” Windblade’s eyes tracked to the small plaque above Steelcast’s door, a hammer and anvil. “With all due respect, lady, I’ve drawn the Smith’s attention once and I would prefer not to do it again, so I pay her the respect she demands.”

“Really?” Windblade stood upright. “What--what happened?”

Steelcast grimaced. “I had thought to craft a sword as beautiful as the Star Saber for my liege at the time. I kept pouring more of myself into it as I dreamed of being seen as the greatest smith of my generation, second only to the Smith herself. One day I had done too much, and in my fevered vision, I saw her standing in front of my anvil. She spoke so clearly I knew I wasn’t hallucinating, and she said that ‘It takes a Prime to forge a star. Do not kill yourself in the attempt,’ and then when I woke up, the sword I had been working on was a blackened wreck. I learned my lesson about hubris. She was nicer about it than she could have been.”

Windblade wanted to say that she had met Solus too, and agree that Solus could be kinder than anyone would expect from a Prime out of myth, but as she looked at Steelcast, she knew that the smith wouldn’t understand someone who spoke of Solus in the affectionate present. Solus, to her, was someone to be respected and feared, not respected and cherished. Only another Camien would understand.

“Thank you,” Windblade said after a pause. “May I send my guard to collect?”

Steelcast smiled. “Of course. And, er, the fee--.”

“No object,” Windblade said with a dismissive gesture. “You are doing me a great favor. One last question,” she hesitated before she asked, “Will it continue to work if I’m not wearing it?”

Steelcast shook her head. “Is that all right, lady?”

“No, it’s fine.” Windblade squared her shoulders with a sharp breath. “At some point, I will need to take it off.”

“When I craft these, they’re good for ten years or more,” Steelcast assured her. “And if you come see me every other year, I can reinforce the charms so that the ring doesn’t break.”

“Oh, good,” Windblade smiled again. “Thank you.”

Steelcast bowed. “Thank you, lady.”

\--

_April 30, 1037  
Iacon_

“I can’t begin to tell you,” Starscream remarked, “how glad I am you can walk the top of the wall without worrying about falling.”

From her position on top of the wall with her arms spread for balance, Windblade rolled her eyes. “I’m enjoying the breeze,” she said.

“Right up until it pushes you off the wall.”

“All right, what’s wrong?” She lowered her hand, and Starscream took it so that she could jump down. Her hair was a mess and she was in working clothes, but in the rising moonlight she was beautiful. Starscream swallowed the lump in his throat. You’ve seen more beautiful people! he scolded himself.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said as she brushed her skirts straight.

“You only needle me when you’re trying not to think about something,” she said. “Is it Metalhawk?”

Starscream grimaced despite himself. The caravan leader had quickly settled in to the city, despite only being in the city proper for about a day. His people had been placed in the apartment buildings near the wall on the north side of the city, near the city gates, as a holding pattern while the Council figured out land parceling, and he had been seated on the Council as a matter of courtesy.

He was wearing on Windblade’s nerves, too, although she hid it better than Starscream did. He didn’t  allow for people being experts on matters he was not, and Windblade was an expert at the public health and organization in a way he was not, yet he persisted in telling her her trade.

One day, she was going to lose her temper at him and Starscream couldn’t _wait._ She was enjoyable to watch when she was angry at someone else.

“He wanted to discuss taxation with me,” Starscream said, scuffing his foot along the rough stone path. “He couldn’t understand why we had taken the tack we had. I pointed out it seems foolish to tax people into poverty when the city hasn’t righted itself in international trade yet. He said that he wasn’t arguing for the tax rate to go up, stupid me, but he was arguing that all incoming émigrés should be exempt from taxation for at least a year.” Starscream scowled. “That they should be free from any kind of sales tax is...ridiculous. My own people have to pay it, and they’re in very different financial shape from _his_. He have livestock, for the sake of Primus!”

“They’re your people too,” Windblade said. 

“Not according to him. We happen to be two governments in one city.” Starscream made an aborted movement to punch the stone wall. Windblade caught his hand before he could injure himself. Her shoulder was almost back to normal, and people had stopped staring at the blue in her hair. She kept it hidden, though. “The only thing that will shut him up is to hold another election.”

“We just held one,” Windblade objected. “On April 3rd!”

“Try telling _him_ that.”

Windblade rubbed her eyes. “I share your headache,” she muttered. “Right. We will be expecting the return of more émigrés, and it seems silly to run an election right now just to suit one ego. Better to set up an election to allow for as many émigrés to vote as possible, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t _want_ them to vote,” Starscream whined. He was leaning into her, just enough for their arms to brush. She smiled and laced their fingers together. “I want to be ruler for life.”

“Well, you know how you can do that?” she made her voice chipper and sweet, and he scowled at her. “Be the best option there is! I know you can do it--that is, unless you’d rather Metalhawk took your place.”

He pointed at her with his free hand. “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to prick my pride.”

“Is it working?” she inquired. 

“They might choose _you,_ you know. You’re more visible than either of us.”

She drew back, honest horror on her face. “Oh Solus, _no_. I’d much rather tend my garden.”

“Once your garden extends twenty miles past the city in a circle, I’m not sure it’s a garden anymore,” he said waspishly.

“I will reflect all due glory back to you,” she assured him. She sighed. “I really _don’t_ want to rule like that, you know.”

“You were bitter about not being the heir to Caminus,” he pointed out. 

“That was different,” Windblade said. “You know that Hot Shot is the heir.”

“Is he?” Starscream asked pointedly. “I thought your mother was determined to make Lightbright her heir.”

“That may be so, but that’s not what Hot Shot knows.” She sighed. “Let’s not talk about him.”

“All right.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Can I make you manage Metalhawk for the moment? He aggravates me. He makes,” Starscream made a face, “ _petitions._ ”

Windblade chuckled and admired the braided silver ring on her finger. Steelcast had outdone herself. “He already bothers me, about water access and sewage removal. I think he’d try to bother Metroplex if he knew how to get to him.”

“Ooh, do it,” Starscream said with interest. “Wait, tell me first so I can watch.”

Windblade stuck her tongue out at him. “I can take Metalhawk on my rounds with me for the next week or so,” she said after a moment. “Let him see what I do. I’m sure he’ll tell me how I can do it better, but at the very least he can see what my calendar looks like. I expect recompense for it.” She fixed Starscream with a look.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said immediately, “we’re not cleared for sex yet.”

Windblade choked, her cheeks flushing a vibrant red. “That’s not--I didn’t mean--you know what I _meant._ ”

“Do I?”

She rolled her eyes. “I want flowers.”

“I’m no good at floriography,” he warned, “I’d just choose what looked pretty.”

She sighed. “No, I want seeds for flowers that we don’t have here. Devishun has some beautiful night-blooming flowers. I want some seeds and some cuttings.”

“Plotting our courtyard? I heard you were planning stripes of flowers interspersed with stone walkways.”

“I’m reconsidering,” she admitted. “Metroplex wants one of his springs in our courtyard so I don’t have to descend all those stairs just to talk to him. He’s thinking about moving upward in any case, but he hasn’t decided where yet. I’m thinking to maybe create a garden around his spring, and that would involve grass, water blooms, trees like willows and maples, and some flower beds and edges. I’ve sketched it out, but I’m waiting for the carpenters to finish the bower.”

“Hold on, I thought it was a gazebo,” he said as they started to descend the stairs down to the courtyard proper.

“It will have retractable canvas walls so we can still be there when it rains,” she said, “so slightly different than a gazebo. Additionally, I want to plant trees and flowers on the vine to give it more privacy. The bower has to be finished before I can do any of that, and the farmers out in the field need me more.”

He considered the picture she had painted. “Would there be an arched bridge?” he asked abruptly. “I like those.”

She looked at him. “I can add one.”

“Fine. And you don’t need anything else beyond those night-blooming seed and cuttings?”

“Everything else I’ve either started in the greenhouse or have the seeds for.”

“Done, then.” He kissed her cheek. “As long as you keep Metalhawk occupied.”

She grimaced. “Fine.” She leaned against him as they re-entered the courtyard. “It’s May Eve. Last year, I had just returned to Caminus from Eukaris and I had no one to jump over the fires with.”

“You Camiens and your love of fire,” he fussed. “Last year I was--not in a good place. It’s strange to me that Camiens celebrate May Eve. We don’t.”

“It became a holiday after Caminus was founded,” she explained. “Solus’ first daughter fell in love with the volcano spirit that the capital city is built around. Solus refused permission for them to marry, citing the fact that her daughter was mortal and, well, she loved a volcano spirit. Solus’ daughter ignored her and jumped into the fires of the mountain to be with her love and died there. We celebrate May Eve as a tribute to the strength of her love ever since.”

“That’s...awful. She died!”

“The following year, on the anniversary of her death, there was an eruption and suddenly the volcano was split into two,” Windblade told him, “so she transformed into a spirit that could be with him forever. That’s what we celebrate--how transformative true love can be.”

“That’s still terrible,” he said. “You have terrible legends. Sit there and feel bad about it.”

Windblade laughed. “I wonder how legend will represent us, you know.”

He paused. “Why?”

She tugged him a little closer, and he went willingly. Nights were cold, and she threw off enough heat for him to be comfortable. “Well, think about it. We ended a curse created by Primus _and_ killed a revenant. Legend enough for anyone, wouldn’t you say?”

“ _You_ did all the hard work,” he groused, “I just took a sword to the stomach.”

“Fine. Next time we have to grapple with mythological forces, you can do the heavy lifting. Does that work for you?” Her eyes glinted violet in the moonlight, and he had never hated the fact that he wasn’t cleared for sex more. 

“I guess,” he conceded. “I’ll hold you to that.” She smiled, and then he added, “Just like I’ll hold you to distracting Metalhawk.”

He was rewarded with a squawk of indignation. He allowed it with the tiniest of smirks.

\--

_May 13, 1037  
Iacon_

Hook wasn’t surprised to find the princess in his stillroom. He was surprised at the time--it was barely past dawn. “You’re up early.”

She glanced at him, and his morning fog disappeared when he saw the bandage covering the bridge of her nose. “Dear Primus, what happened?” He rushed to her side, his purple-and-green magic glittering at his fingertips.

“Starscream had a nightmare,” she said shortly. Her voice came out a little too nasal, thanks to her broken nose. “I heard him and tried to wake him up.”

“Bad choice,” Hook commented as he probed the skin around her nose. She winced a little--bruising had spread around her nose to her cheekbones. “Don’t wake a war veteran that’s having a nightmare.”

“Yes, I understand that now.” She closed her eyes as Hook sent healing magic into the break. It was a clean break--trust Starscream to still have a good right hook even coming up from nightmare-land--and it didn’t take much to mend the cartilage. It would still be sore, but she could handle that. “And anyway, it occurred to me that if Starscream’s having trouble, the rest of the city probably is too and I wanted to see if a recipe I had would work to manage those kinds of nightmares.”

Hook angled himself to identify what she was steeping. He identified Guardian’s Wort and passionflower, and he suspected the last one was lavender. “You know if you take that, it’ll interfere with that charm on your finger.”

“I don’t need it,” she said, a little too quickly.

He waited, and she sighed. “My nightmares aren’t anything like his,” she explained after a moment. “I don’t lash out or scream. Instead, it’s like I’m petrified, unable to do anything as I watch. I already know I’m dreaming, and it doesn’t help me wake up. This tincture, when it’s properly brewed and diluted, helps to achieve lucid dreaming. If you know you can change your dream…”

“Not a bad plan,” Hook admitted. “How many nights has he had nightmares?”

“That I don’t know,” she said. “We only slept together last night because we were talking and fell asleep. No sex!” she added hastily, “I know he’s not cleared yet.”

“Won’t be for at least another two months,” Hook said, “he keeps having stomach cramps and he’s having trouble keeping food down.”

“I know about that. I’ve gotten him to eat chicken-and-egg soup, and he’s been able to keep that down, but he wants real food, he keeps complaining.”

Hook pointed to the tincture. “What makes you think he can keep that down?”

“I have a lavender-chamomile tea for the nights I have trouble sleeping,” the princess replied as she muddled the herbs in the steaming water, “and he’s been able to keep that down too. One or two drops of this in his tea at night shouldn’t change it up too badly.”

“Does he know you’re doing this? He might think you’re trying to poison him.” Hook leaned on the table. 

“I ran it by him first,” the princess said. “Hook, in Caminus we know what battle fatigue looks like, but I never learned how to treat it. Do you have any ideas?”

“You can’t be his nurse,” Hook warned, “you can’t _fix_ him.”

The princess set her jaw. “I know that,” she said flatly. “But what I can do to help him when I can?”

Hook sighed and found a chair. His bones were too old for him to be stooped over a pot anymore. “It can be a cycle,” he said after he had collected his thoughts. “Something will start to set him off, it builds, then he’ll explode, and then he’ll be shaky for a few days before balancing out. Everyone has specific triggers. Some are pretty obvious--the sounds of clashing weapons, the smell of blood--and some aren’t. He’s never told me what his triggers are.”

“So what do I do?” the princess inquired as she poured the steaming mixture through cheesecloth into a waiting pot. 

“If you can see he’s starting to lose it, do something to break him out of the cycle.” Hook shifted in his chair. “Scents help the most, since it reorients the mind, but touch too. I saw him start to lose it once, and Thundercracker tackled him and wouldn’t let him up until he was calm. I don’t necessarily recommend tackling him all the time, but it is an option.” He peered at her. “I know it’s your _thing_ to fix what’s going wrong around you, but this is something that really can’t ever be fixed, just treated. Trauma leaves wounds where we can’t see them.”

“I know _that_ ,” she said impatiently. With a little more politeness, she added, “Thank you.”

Hook frowned for a moment. “Wait a moment. I thought you had a geass on him…?”

The look she gave him was pure surprise. “He told you about that?”

“I got acquainted with his insides,” Hook grunted, “I could see all the magics laid on him, including your geass. I didn’t ask him about it, but I’m asking you. He was able to hit you despite the geass?”

She winced as she rubbed her nose. “Intent matters to the geass. He didn’t know who he was striking.”

“That seems like an oversight,” Hook remarked. 

“Yes, well, it wasn’t something I considered at the time.” She stirred the boiling tincture. Hook saw suddenly that it wasn’t over any kind of heating element--the princess was keeping it at the perfect boiling temperature with her own magic. “I didn’t want him to strike me in anger.”

It sounded like an explanation, even though Hook hadn’t needed one. He knew too well what Starscream was like when riled, and a geass wasn’t the worst thing she could have done to protect herself from him. “And he knows?”

“He’s figured it out.” She shrugged. “He hasn’t tried to strike me since he learned about it.”

“I take it you’re not particularly fond of corporal punishment, then,” Hook mused. “Is that a Camien thing?”

“I don’t believe it is ever appropriate to strike someone unless you’re defending yourself,” the princess said as she focused on her tincture. “It becomes too easy and doesn’t solve anything. It breeds resentment, and at some point, everyone loses.”

“Maybe so,” Hook said, “but there was something specific that set you off, wasn’t there? It’s not like you can’t defend yourself.” He nodded to the boiling liquid.

She stirred it for a moment, and then she said quietly, so quietly he almost missed it, “My brother hoped he would beat me daily. It put a few things in perspective for me.”

Hook nodded like he understood, even though he didn’t. He had a contentious relationship with his own siblings, but he would never have sold any of them into a relationship where there was not only an expectation, but a _hope_ of domestic violence. “Fuck your brother, then.”

She snorted. “No, I’ll leave that to his wife.”

“He’s married?! Are they safe?”

“She’s safe enough right now, I think. He loves her more than he loves the rest of us, and she’s careful to agree with him.” The princess shrugged. “I don’t think he’d ever touch her.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t hurt her in other ways,” Hook pointed out. 

“Yes, well, that’s not my problem,” she said flatly. “He’s dying.”

“Oh. Well. Good riddance, then,” Hook said. 

She laughed. “Precisely.” She stopped stirring the tincture. “Can we make this available to anyone who wants it?”

Hook eyed the steaming tincture. “I’d rather test it first before prescribing it to anyone having a hard time. And Guardian’s wort interferes with contraceptive charms, so it can’t be given to just anyone.”

“I have another recipe that’s just passionflower, but that’s more to help you sleep than to lucidly dream,” the princess said. “But that might help some too.”

Hook sighed. “Send me a copy of both recipes and notes of how it’s affecting our lord. If it’s positive, I’ll talk to Red Alert and see what kind of study we can set up before we release it publicly. Does that work for you?”

He was rewarded with a smile. “Yes, I believe so,” the princess said. She touched the bridge of her nose gently. “And thank you.”

He flapped a hand. “You’ve had enough issues lately.”

She swooped down to press a kiss to his cheek. “You’re a good person, Hook.”

He was flushing--flushing! At his age! “Only occasionally, princess.”

\--

_June 2, 1037  
Iacon_

“I don’t understand,” Metalhawk began for the fifteenth time, “why we simply cannot have a community space where people can gather and--.”

“Stop right there,” Starscream pointed his finger at Metalhawk. “Community spaces we have agreed. We’ve agreed to community _gardens_ and _parks_ , for Primus’ sake. _You_ want a church.”

It was the third time they had had this argument in three weeks. Apparently Metalhawk’s people were devout. Starscream didn’t mind the devout--he had actually _met_ Primus recently, though he wasn’t impressed--but he didn’t want them in a public space. He had too many bad memories. 

“It is still a community space,” Metalhawk insisted. “It is a space for education, meeting the needs of the indigent--.”

“Are you attempting to claim something about my leadership?” Starscream snapped as he sat bolt upright. “Iacon has no homeless, and that’s something we’ve worked blessed hard on!”

“My lady princess,” Metalhawk appealed to Windblade, who was sitting and listening with the most passive diplomacy Starscream had ever seen from her, “Caminus is a religious state, is it not? Surely you can see the need for a public space to worship!”

Silence fell immediately. Starscream was aware that Ultra Magnus and Ravage had spoken to Windblade privately about issues they were having with him, and Windblade had kindly but firmly redirected them to address their grievances with him. No one had been stupid enough to appeal to her directly in front of him.

Slowly, Windblade placed her palms on the table. “Caminus is a ‘religious state,’ as you put it, Master Metalhawk, due to quirks in our history that Cybertron does not share.” Starscream was sure that he was the only one in the room who knew how furious Windblade was for being put on the spot like that. Ravage guessed, if her flinch was anything to go by, but everyone else just saw Windblade as polite and serene.

Oh, please let today be the day she blows up at him, Starscream begged mentally. _Please_.

“Furthermore,” Windblade added when it was clear Metalhawk was still awaiting her opinion, “Camien history does not star religious figures who supported an illegitimate regime and the oppressions they espoused against the most vulnerable in their population.”

Metalhawk flinched at the words “illegitimate regime.” _Bliss._

“But, my lady,” Metalhawk said when Windblade’s pause drew on a stretch too long, “that was the leadership of the church, not the church itself.”

“And just how,” Windblade asked quietly, but _very_ dangerously, “are the people supposed to tell the difference?”

“Faith is different,” Metalhawk protested.

“Perhaps,” Windblade said, “but ‘perhaps’ is not enough.” She rose, and after a moment, everyone rose to join her. Starscream stayed seated. Oh, this was too good. “And I am not someone you can ask to change Starscream’s mind when he has made his opinion perfectly clear. I am deeply insulted, and I recommend this Council meeting adjourn.”

Metalhawk was the first one out the door, and Starscream lolled back in his chair with a grin. Ultra Magnus and Ravage left after that, but Bumblebee remained. “I am not certain this is an argument you will win,” Bumblebee said as Windblade left the table to stare into the fire. The library was cooler than any other room in the palace, cool enough to justify a fire. If the flames flared upward the longer she stared at it, Starscream wasn’t going to mention it. “People need something to worship, some common thread to pull them together. It’s why religion is always with us. There will always be some atheists, like you, Starscream, but on the whole, people need something to believe in.”

“I’m not an atheist,” Starscream protested.

Bumblebee raised his eyebrows.

“I’m not. We’ve,” he gestured to Windblade, who was still staring into the fire, “actually met Primus. I don’t have to believe in Primus to know that he exists. She’s met Solus Prime. Well, technically, I did too but we didn’t get on so her experience is more valid here.”

“At some point, you’re right,” Windblade said gravely without bothering to turn around, “we _will_ lose this argument. I’m certain Metalhawk is marshaling the people as we speak. ‘Lord Starscream is outlawing worship!’ or some tripe like that.”

“Asshole,” Starscream said peaceably.

“No argument here,” Bumblebee said. “So if you know you’re going to lose the argument, why not give in now?”

Windblade turned to look at Starscream. Starscream sighed and leaned forward in his chair. “We keep them dangling on a string until we offer one concession--yes, we will allow public worship _in one way only_ \--and he’ll be so grateful for the concession he won’t ask for another one. Something is better than nothing, right? Then, when it comes time for the next one, they’ll be grateful for scraps. If we allow it wholesale right now, while they’re still fired up and angry about it, they’ll refuse and use our offer as a sign of our bad faith. Our way, we can say ‘hmm, we’ve been listening and you’ve convinced us for this.’” Starscream sighed. “I _really_ don’t want to bring back public worship. They’ll make me attend.”

“Oh no,” Windblade said blandly, “you’ll make _me_ go.”

“You actually care about this shit,” Starscream told her. “Some of the books Caminus have sent us are religious texts.”

“It’s lore,” she corrected, “theories and theology about the creation of our world and our people.”

“Yeah, like I said, religious texts.” Starscream yawned. “We also don’t want Metalhawk thinking he can throw a tantrum and get what he wants.”

Bumblebee rested his chin on top of his laced fingers.”Practicing parenting already?” he asked mildly.

Windblade chuckled as Starscream squawked. “Something like that,” she said. “But Metalhawk is trying to build a base to challenge Starscream for next year’s election. The people who are here, who have been here, understand why worship isn’t allowed in public spaces. Metalhawk thinks this is a lever he can pull. And Starscream, for all of his flaws,--.”

“Hey,” Starscream complained.

“For all of his flaws, Starscream has a sense for riding the middle.” Windblade blew on her fingers, and sparks flew. “He won’t try to use me against him again, though. So that’s something.”

“I can’t believe he was so stupid to think he could do it publicly,” Starscream shook his head. 

“And on something that’s not my purview!” Windblade smoothed down her robes before meeting Bumblebee’s wide eyes. “I run the city administration, not its politics.”

“So that’s true, then,” Bumblebee said. “You do run the day-to-day of the city.”

“Well, I try, but there are only so many hours in the day.” Windblade stretched. “And I do it with a dedicated team.”

“It’s not like we’re hiding it, but she’s more visible out of the two of us,” Starscream told Bumblebee. “And she has the education and experience for things like redesigning the city plumbing to ensure clean water and safe sewage disposal. Best to leave that to her, we decided. Anyone who could have had those skills didn’t survive the war.”

Bumblebee nodded. “And yet only one Council?”

Windblade exchanged a quick look with Starscream. “At some point, we’ll need to have some kind of legislating body,” Starscream admitted. “I can’t write all the legislation with Ultra Magnus forever, we’ve got shit to do. We’re just trying to figure out how to do it without falling into the trap of the Senate.”

“I’m doing research on direct voting in my free time, which largely entails writing letters to my contacts since we only have one book about voting and its impact on politics, and its message is, basically, _don’t do this thing._ ” Windblade shook her head. “But the people deserve a voice in creating the laws they must follow, but if we tried to poll the whole city, we’d never get anything done, ever, and quite possibly invite civil war to our door.”

Bumblebee tapped the end of his cane against the floor thoughtfully. “Why not create a public referendum on the establishment of public worship spaces? Let Metalhawk campaign for it, and set a date for when the votes will be counted.”

“One person, one vote,” Windblade said. “Should children--?”

“No, children shouldn’t get to vote,” Starscream said. “They’re too young to understand. We’ll need to take a census so we know how many votes we _should_ have to prevent voter fraud.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Windblade told him absently. “But a census isn’t a bad idea in any case.” She looked to Bumblebee. “Why don’t you make the arrangements for this?”

Bumblebee jerked. “What?”

“You’re on the Council too,” Windblade pointed out. “Ultra Magnus, Starscream, and myself are the most visible members. Ravage is Intelligence, better for her to keep quiet, and Captain Barricade is part of the City Watch, who _reports_ to the Council. He isn’t perceived as being on it. You should arrange this.”

Starscream sat upright. “Yes,” he said in a voice dripping with condescension. “It’s all yours.”

Bumblebee scowled at them, but he couldn’t argue, not when they had a point. “I hate you both.”

“Oh look,” Starscream told Windblade with cheer, “someone hates you now! You’re definitely getting there in how effective you are.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

\--

_July 26, 1037  
Iacon_

It took two weeks to set up the upcoming referendum on public worship, and then two debates had to be scheduled (Metalhawk for, Starscream against). The vote had been scheduled to be tallied July 26, but voting opened July 21 to ensure maximum engagement. That had been Bumblebee’s idea, all of it. Starscream would have been pleased with a single public question-and-answer event and one day devoted to voting.

Windblade had arranged for a light dinner for all interested parties to wait out the vote counting. The early crop of potatoes, zucchini, and onions were harvested, and the palace cooks were delighted with the influx of incoming vegetables. Full harvest wouldn’t begin for another month and a half, but it looked promising. 

The day of the vote, Windblade had been so busy with the kitchens and organizing the dinner that she had barely seen anyone until the arrival of dinner guests. Metalhawk had his second-in-command, Nightra, and a few of the returning émigrés that did not belong to Metalhawk’s caravan had sent representatives. That meant around thirty people were in attendance, including the Council, Starscream, and herself. 

Even though she didn’t have a huge stake in whatever happened with the referendum (she understood both sides of the argument, even if her sympathies were with Starscream), she found the hustle and bustle of the dinner planning to be soothing. It was something she had been taught to do at the Temple, and she liked it. She liked to greet everyone who came in and to ensure they were all comfortable. She knew how to create a seating chart where everyone was all right with their neighbors, and how to make them feel welcome.

Hospitality was sacred in Caminus. She intended to make it sacred in Cybertron too.

“My lady princess,” Metalhawk said as she greeted him and Nightra. “It is good to see you.”

From the lines around his eyes and mouth, she guessed he was a little stressed about the outcome of the referendum, but not that much. Was he so certain it would go his way? It wasn’t her problem, at least, it wouldn’t be her problem unless the referendum _did_ go his way and she would be in charge of planning where houses of worship would go in the city grid and how to get them on the existing water piping.

She allowed him to kiss the top of her hand. “And you as well, Master Metalhawk, Master Nightra.”

“Princess Windblade,” Nightra nodded. She was tall and broad, but Windblade still topped her by three inches. It bothered her. Windblade hid a smile. Why were Cybertronians so bothered by people being taller than them? It wasn’t a problem in Caminus.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Windblade invited. “We won’t have the results for another few hours. I have set up tables to play cards, backgammon, and chess.”

“Thank you,” Nightra said. She steered Metalhawk down the slight staircase to one of the tables holding a chessboard. 

“Have you seen Starscream today?” Thundercracker moved to her side as she watched Bumblebee migrate to Metalhawk’s table. 

Windblade glanced at him and saw his concern. “No, I’ve been working between the kitchens and this room today. I thought he was working with Ultra Magnus to ensure the votes would be correctly tallied.”

“He was, but he vanished around noon and no one’s seen him since.”

“Do you want me to go looking for him?” Windblade glanced down at the small hall that was holding the party. “Not everyone’s here yet.”

“No, I’ll look for him.” Thundercracker squeezed her shoulder. “Hopefully he’ll show up late just to make an entrance.”

“That does sound like him,” she agreed, and she smiled as another representative appeared in the doorway. Thundercracker brushed past them on his way out. Worry fluttered in her stomach, but she had to put that aside to greet all of the representatives. Thundercracker would find him.

When the last representative had come and the hall was loud with chatter and laughter, Windblade glanced around the room to see if her absence would be noted. Dinner would be served in half an hour, and Starscream’s absence was conspicuous. If she went looking for him--

“Oh good, you’re all here!”

As one, everyone in the hall turned to the upper hallway that overlooked the hall. Starscream stood there in silver and scarlet, and Windblade smoothed down her robes as she relaxed slightly. Good, he had joined them.

“We’re still eagerly awaiting the results,” Starscream went on, “but I have been told there are still openings in the books for the final tally!”

Windblade froze. He didn’t sound like himself. What was the problem? “My lord, will you not join us so that we may eat?” she called. 

“Fine,” Starscream fussed, “but only because you ask it.” He winked at her, but it only made her more nervous. It wasn’t like him to be so affectionate in public. He vanished from the balustrade, and Thundercracker appeared next to her. 

“I found him.”

“I see that. Is he _drunk?_ ”

“No, he doesn’t drink,” Thundercracker touched her elbow. “I’m not sure what’s going on. I’ll try to play interference.”

She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

She made her way down the small stairs into the hall proper, where she stopped to make small talk with everyone. She had learned how to do this when treating patients who couldn’t leave their beds and needed their nurses to help distract them with small gossip and funny stories. _Sister Medica would be amused to learn to how I’m using this technique now._

Starscream appeared at the top of the stairs, and he beamed at the room as everyone stood to bow. Windblade, used to him and his appearance, frowned slightly to see how drawn he was and how much deeper the lines were around his eyes. He had ‘celebrated’ his forty-first birthday in June (with much complaining), but the lines around his eyes were new. “Yes, yes,” he said with a dismissive gesture. “We’re all eagerly awaiting the results of our first public referendum. It will be a test to see how well we can pull it off. Regardless of the results, we will have accomplished something.”

He joined her at her side, and she was alarmed to feel how cold he was. He was, as a general rule, cool to the touch, but as he lifted a glass of juice, she could see frost forming on the surface of the glass where his hand cradled it. 

“Are you,” she started to ask quietly, but he ignored her to go sit at the head of the dinner table Thundercracker appeared next to her, and she asked a question with raised eyebrows. He shrugged. 

“I think he’s on the edge of his composure,” Thundercracker murmured in her ear as she went in to kiss his cheek in greeting. “But I don’t know why. I haven’t seen anything from him today that would make me guess something’s up.”

“But he left you around noon and you haven’t seen him since,” she replied softly. 

“I’ll mind him,” Thundercracker promised. To the best that he could, anyway, she though dourly. Hook had told her that scent was the most effective thing to help disrupt a coming attack, and they were about to have dinner. If that wasn’t enough, she would have to figure out some way to make him smell the violets and gardenias she had scattered around the room in thick bouquets. 

Please, Solus, let the food be enough. 

She was halfway through the room when Swift came to her. “Dinner is ready,” Swift informed her quietly, and Windblade nodded.

“Please, everyone, take your seats,” she called. “Dinner is served!”

The dining table was a long rectangle to allow for easier conversation and passing of food to the thirty-odd guests. She had agonized over the seating chart for a solid three days, because she hadn’t wanted to sit anywhere but at Starscream’s right hand (the visuals were important), but the only other person who could sit at the foot of the table would have to be someone equal in rank. The closest person to that was her.

She would have preferred a circular table, but with thirty-odd guests, it would have been a _very_ large table with poor conversation. 

Since Starscream was already seated, everyone could sit. Servers came forward with water bowls and towels, and once their hands were clean, the soup course arrived.

Though Windblade had agonized over the menu, she barely tasted the thin onion broth with stewed ginger and garlic. Her eyes and attention were entirely set on Starscream, where he was leaning over to chat with Thundercracker, who was seated at Starscream’s right hand. Bumblebee was on his left. 

“Tell me, my lady, was this your recipe?” Metalhawk was seated next to her, on account of ‘Sitting next to Metalhawk’s sanctimony all night will definitely cause me indigestion,’ according to Starscream. “A few of my people spent some time in Caminus after war broke out and they said that ginger starred in all your soups.”

“That’s not entirely accurate,” Windblade said with a small smile. “But close enough. This soup was actually one from Vos, although some ingredients had to be omitted. I haven’t been able to harvest our water chestnuts yet.”

“Lord Starscream keeps recipes?” Metalhawk’s eyes widened theatrically. “I wouldn’t have thought that of him.”

“No, I did the research myself,” Windblade said, “and Lord Thundercracker helped. I recognize that the differences in climate will mean that this new Cybertronian cuisine cannot match what they grew up with, but food is one of our most important cultural touchstones and I wanted something that was a reminder of happier times for him.”

“If only it was always so easy,” Metalhawk said. “Does this mean we can’t expect Camien cuisine at your table?”

“I never said that, Master Metalhawk,” she made herself laugh, the way she normally would have if Starscream hadn’t been worrying her so much. “The climate here is similar to the climate in the Camien lowlands. We’ll have Camien dishes soon enough.”

“Tell me, my lady,” Lancet, a new healer who had been recruited by Red Alert, inquired, “is it true that the land was dead and you regenerated it?”

“The land was regenerated by Primus, Solus Prime, and Vector Prime,” Windblade said carefully. If gossip got around that _she_ had done it, people who hated Starscream but didn’t care for the newer contenders for the throne would try to set her up as a rival, “I was merely the channel. It was not enjoyable, I can promise you.”

“But that tree,” Lancet persisted, “it’s said that it contains the spark of a dead Prime.”

“It does,” Windblade allowed. It was Sentinel’s prison, and she didn’t want anyone chopping down the magnificent oak in an attempt to release him. She had gone to too much trouble to cage him in it.

“How did that come to be?”

“A series of truly unfortunate choices and circumstances,” she said. “It was traumatic for me, so I would really prefer not to discuss it, if you do not mind, Master Lancet.”

Lancet would have prodded further, but Metalhawk cleared his throat. “I understand that the project of crop development is under your purview, my lady.”

“That’s correct,” Windblade said politely as the meat course--seared pork belly over rice with a sweet and spicy sauce--was laid in front of them. “I would like the city to be able to pull the majority of its produce from the fields surrounding the city, so that our people can focus on cash crops like wheat, rice, and the orchards.”

“Why do it that way?”

Why was he interrogating her? Across the table, Starscream was barely touching his food. She caught Thundercracker’s eye and he shook his head slightly. No, he hadn’t had any luck in getting Starscream to eat.

“If our people don’t have to worry about subsistence farming, Master Metalhawk, then we can use cash crops to bolster our international trade,” Windblade said politely. “The sooner we can stand on our own without relying on loans and tariff credits, the better, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Relying on crops can be a losing proposition,” Master Nightra remarked.

“I understand that,” Windblade answered, fighting the first wave of her temper. They were acting like she had only been partially tutored in macroeconomics. Did they think that her title meant she had received a poor education? “But again, when people don’t have to worry about whether they’ve grown enough to feed themselves, they can begin to branch out to other necessary trade, such as textiles, pottery, carpentry, and glassmaking. This first year is going to be close to the bone--there’s nothing we can do about that--but next year, we will have a greater advantage, and the money the city earns through sales of its cash crops can buy supplies, livestock, and goodwill. We have every intention of moving to an integrated, product-based economy, but feeding our people is crucial to getting there.”

“And it keeps you visible in the eyes of the people,” Master Nightra said, her eyes hard. 

This, _again?_ “What would you have me do?” Windblade snapped. “Return to my bower and sew and say nothing? I have skills, knowledge, and experience to move this city forward. It would be a dishonor to my teachers to scorn their lessons. Pardon me.” She stood up, ostensibly to visit the privy, but she needed a moment to get hold of her anger.

In the private hallway bordering the room they were using, Windblade pressed her hands against the wall and breathed in deeply. The temperature hadn’t shifted--thank Solus for small mercies--but she wasn’t used to her anger being so...present. Excessive anger had never been her problem, so she had never been taught how to wrangle it like some of her other, more rebellious, emotions.

She heard the tapping of Bumblebee’s cane and she stood up straight. “Master Bumblebee,” she said politely as she tucked her hands into her sleeves. “What can I do for you?”

The hallway was in shadow, but she could still see the concern on Bumblebee’s face. “Are you all right?”

“Me?” she asked. “Oh, I’m fine.”

“Are you?” Bumblebee arched an eyebrow. “I had wondered why you seated Masters Metalhawk and Nightra near you.”

“Better close to me than Starscream,” she said. “I can manage better than he can.”

“My dear, a bird could manage better than he can.” He peered at her. “Are you upset?”

She hesitated. She wanted someone to confide in, but Bumblebee wasn’t noble, had never been noble. He wouldn’t understand the suspicion she was dealing with. “No, I just needed a moment to catch my breath,” she said finally. “I’ve been working so hard on this dinner than the fact that it’s going well is overwhelming me.”

Bumblebee clearly did not believe her, but he let the matter rest. Thank Solus.

They returned to the room just as a courier arrived with an envelope. The results had come in. Before Windblade could go back to her seat, Starscream called her to his side. She stood next to him as he opened the envelope, and she was alarmed by how cold the air was around him. His dark grey robe was marked with spirals of frost, but it mirrored the existing pattern in the robe and it wasn’t immediately obvious. He shouldn’t be so cold.

She saw Starscream smirked as he pulled out the paper containing the result of the tallies. “If I may have your attention,” he called down the table, and all conversation died as he brandished the referendum result. “We have the results of the public referendum concerning the creation of spaces for public worship.”

Starscream looked down at the paper and then back up, in a transparent attempt at raising the tension in the room. He truly missed his calling as a player. “By a margin of 1038 to 349, the city has voted against the creation of spaces devoted to public worship.”

Windblade maintained her composure through massive effort. She had suspected that Starscream’s side would win the argument, but not by such a large margin. Metalhawk’s caravan was only three hundred people, and Windblade suspected not all of them had voted with Metalhawk. There were always people uncomfortable with the status quo in an explicitly religious community. 

Down the table, Metalhawk rose. “I accept the will of the people,” he said with apparent good humor. “Congratulations, my lord.” 

The air around Starscream cooled even further, and Windblade hid her dismay at being able to see her breath. Starscream was _furious_ , even if he appeared to be smirking genially. “You could have just believed me,” Starscream said. “I know my people.”

“They deserved a chance to have their voice publicly heard, not just relayed by you,” Metalhawk said. 

Windblade touched Starscream’s arm, but he shook her off. “You just couldn’t abide by the idea that I could be right. And I _was_ right.”

Metalhawk frowned a little, but he inclined his head. “Yes, you were, my lord. You were right.”

Starscream took in a shaky breath. “Yes, I was right. I was right.” To Windblade’s alarm, it had the note of hysteria to it. She needed to get him out of there, without anyone suspecting he was falling to pieces.

She took a gamble, and took his hand. He looked at her in surprise, and she pressed a delicate kiss to the top of his knuckles. “Yes, my lord, you were right,” she said quietly. “Would you show me the final tallies?”

He understood what she meant, and he had a choice. He could stay and taunt Metalhawk some more, or he could use the opportunity she was offering him to give him someplace private.

He took it, to her relief. “Yes, of course. They’ve divided up where the votes came from.” He was still shaking, and the air around him was so cold that the water vapor glimmered as small drops of ice ( _diamond dust_ , she thought), but he still had enough presence of mind to understand that something was wrong.

“Take your time,” Thundercracker said with a wink, and the table laughed at his playful lasciviousness. Better to think that she was going to ‘reward’ Starscream than the truth. 

As she led him to the serving hall, she saw that the servants had gathered. She nodded to them and they let them pass.

Starscream didn’t ask any questions or try to take the lead as she led him upstairs through the serving halls. It bothered her, a little bit, for him to be so unusually tractable, but it got them to her rooms more quickly.

She had redesigned her rooms now that Victorion was well on her way to being an adult cat. She had a small sofa with a connecting chaise facing the fire for the nights she sewed or embroidered, and she pushed Starscream down onto the sofa while she flicked her fingers at the fireplace. Fire burst upward in a crackle of sparks, and she went hunting for the quilts that Lightbright had sent about a month ago.

When she returned to the main room, her arms full of quilts, Starscream was where she had left him, and her heart broke. She carefully laid the quilts on top of him, and he stirred briefly. “Why the blankets?”

“I’m afraid you’re in shock,” she said, “and the blankets will help.”

“All right,” he said, and subsided under the many thick quilts.

What was she supposed to do? Spray him with her violet water? He was stuck in his own head, and she didn’t know how to get him out of it.

“Sit with me,” he said abruptly, and she obeyed without thinking about it. He moved over on the small sofa until he could rest his head on her thigh. “Pet me.”

It was only an echo of his usual imperiousness, but it meant he was coming back to himself, so she smothered a giggle and started to stroke his curls. He had worn them down and unstyled, even though they brushed his shoulders. She should have known earlier that he wasn’t feeling like himself.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she ventured.

“No.”

“All right.” Underneath her hand, he was gradually warming up, but she didn’t like how cold he got. Had he not been a death witch, the temperature of his body would have been deadly. She could run hot for a variety of reasons, but she never ran as hot as he had run cold. Something was wrong, not just his physical reaction to...whatever plagued him.

“I think we need to start magic control lessons,” she said as she caught her fingers on a knot in his hair. She worked on it gently to unravel it. 

“Hm? Why?”

“Because your magic shouldn’t be acting out like this. Just because you’re feeling a strong emotion doesn’t mean your body should drop under the freeze temperature threshold.”

“But you…” Starscream considered the problem. “You can run hot.”

“But I don’t set things on fire.” She had fixed the snarl and found another one. “You were freezing your glass.”

“I’m not weak.” The reply was quick, and almost angry.

“Indeed not,” she said, “not when you’re able to affect things around you so strongly.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know it’s not,” she sighed. “And if I told you it wasn’t weakness to be affected by trauma for a long time afterwards, you’d huff at me and not believe me because I’m softer than you or something.”

“You _are_ softer than me.”

“Is that a good thing to tell someone who can yank your hair at a given moment?” She unwove another knot. “Were you tearing at your hair today?”

He was silent, which she took as assent. It made her awkward--Starscream without the curse was harder to predict than Starscream _with_ the curse, and his emotional responses had always been sideways to her expectations in any case. What more could she do for him?

She desperately wished for something to embroider, but with his head on her lap, that would...awkward. She didn’t know what to do.

“Do you remember the last time we sat like this?” Starscream asked after too much time had elapsed.

Of course she did. “You had injured yourself in an attempt to help the crew stabilize our vessel.” Solus, it had been months ago. How much had changed between now and then. She wasn’t sure yet if it was for the better. How many choices would she have decided differently if she had known then what maneuverings Starscream was attempting to accomplish? Her brother’s spies had noted how close they were--would she have treated him in private if she had known?

Could she have stopped it? Should she have wanted to?

Starscream stretched under the blankets. “Would you mind getting me that tincture of yours?”

Windblade was nodding before she was aware of it. “Yes, of course.”

It wasn’t the night to doubt her choices. That time would come, but Starscream was asking for help, something he wouldn’t have done so easily months ago. Maybe the subversion of her autonomy was worth--something, at least.

\--

_August 1, 1037  
Iacon_

Starscream pushed open the doors leading to the private courtyard in the family wing with a relieved sigh. He hated meetings where nothing got done, and the more people involved in the meeting, the more time was wasted in arguing over _stupid._ No wonder the Senate was so ineffective. They had _five hundred members._ He was struggling with only ten.

Windblade had not deigned to show up, citing some kind of more important task to occupy her time. After the last two hours, he couldn’t blame her. They were getting ready to pull the harvest in, except that it was raining and that somehow prevented the beginnings of the harvest? Whatever, he didn’t understand how farming worked.

The inner courtyard was a mess of dirt and half-built rails and walkways. Windblade’s bower was completed, as was the arched bridge. The bridge was justified by the swirling spring water that surrounded the bower, separating the bower from dry land by about four to six feet. The spring then directed into a small, three-foot wide stream that stretched across the inner courtyard, under a flat bridge (when was _that_ built?!), and then deepened into a pond near the corner of the courtyard.

The rest of the courtyard was a mass of dark soil, in piles with no rhyme or reason. Starscream was aware Windblade had a plan for it, but it just looked like a mess.

When he glanced down the covered walkway, he saw Windblade was seated with some kind of easel in front of her. Painting was her more important task? Well, no, that sounded about right. He ambled down to her, and as he got closer, he realized the easel was holding a piece of canvas that Windblade was stitching. No, it wasn’t canvas, it was the right fabric for some kind of major embroidery work. He stopped behind her, but she must have just begun the project; he could only see smeared lines that she was outlining with thin green stitches.

“What?” she snapped after he didn’t say anything.

“I hope you like organizing things, because this is a _mess_ ,” he said genially.

She didn’t even look at him. “I’m so sorry that it’s not up to your standard,” she said sweetly as her needle darted in and out of the fabric. “Don’t ever garden, your spirit would be _crushed._ ”

He raised his eyebrows. “And why is there a covered walkway?”

“It’s pretty,” Windblade said flatly.

“Just...pretty?”

“It’s a garden designed by me _for_ me. It only has to suit me.” Windblade snipped the green thread to replace it with red. 

“I’m used to your reasoning appealing to more than vanity.”

“Oh, you’re lecturing me about vanity?” 

He paused. “Are we having a real argument, or do you just want someone to snark at? If it’s the former, tell me what the issue is so I can defend myself appropriately. If it’s the latter, I can go get you a training dummy.”

“You’re one to talk,” she snapped. Then she sighed. “I’m just so...restless. I haven’t been in one place for so long.”

That, she was lying about, but he didn’t feel like arguing about it. “Tired of the rain already?” For himself, he felt he could hear the slow drip of water on the roof until the end of time. 

“Maybe. We can’t harvest the wheat until the rain stops, because if it’s harvested while wet, the wheat will get musty and rot. We’ve already begun to harvest the other vegetables like beans, garlic, and corn, but they need to be cured in the sun before we can put them up, which, again, we can’t do right now. The squashes, tomatoes, and peppers won’t be ready for another month. We’re forced to sit on our hands and I can’t promise my presence in the hospital until early November, when the whole harvest has been brought in.” She still wasn’t looking at him as she pulled the red thread taut. “And I’m not sleeping well.”

“Well, that one I might be able to help with.” He stretched with both hands over his head, and he sighed with satisfaction when his back cracked. “Hook cleared me yesterday afternoon.”

She blinked once, twice, before the pieces came together. “Oh,” she said faintly.

He leaned down until he could rest his chin on her shoulder. “Just ‘oh’? We could continue our argument that way.”

She looked away from him, which gave him access to her right ear. He blew on it, and she shuddered. “You’d be able to sleep,” he offered.

He was pleased to see her swallow hard. “May I come to milady’s bower?” he inquired quietly, and that clinched it. She closed her eyes and breathed out, and finally she nodded.

“Tonight,” she whispered. “Not now.”

“No, indeed,” he said into her ear. “Tonight, then.”

They might still end up arguing later, but at least it would be more pleasant than her hurling barbs at him. This way, he could play as hard as she could. It gave him something to look forward to.

\--

_Later_

It had been a long time since Windblade had planned an assignation. Her relationship with Override and Moonracer hadn’t ever really involved an active assignation. She had planned how to seduce Elita over dinner once they were ‘established,’ but Elita and Starscream were not...alike. Not in that way. Elita was always unquestioning in her control of their encounters, and Windblade had willingly consented. Sex had been so new and wonderful and she hadn’t known how to take control, to make it more equal. Sex with Moonracer and Override had been playful and comfortable, an extension of their friendship.

Sex with Starscream...it could be charged, but she knew what she wanted and what she liked, and it was a place where she felt empowered to be selfish. She covered her face with her hands. For Solus’ sake, they had only had sex _once_ , why was she theorizing so much about it? 

She didn’t like how unsettled and uprooted she felt all the time. It was a shock to work in the same fields, day in and day out, when the last time her work had been so constant was during her education at the Temple. She hadn’t ever been in one place long enough since her first diplomatic assignment to actually make it a home.

She had accomplished what she set out to do in Cybertron. There were others who were just as skilled in growing things and nursing (though not at the same time). Could she just vanish? Chromia would help her. She couldn’t return to Caminus, not after she had signed the betrothal agreement. It would be dishonorable in the extreme, and Windblade had many faults, but faithless was not one of them.

Would Elita take her back? Did she want her to?

She groaned into her hands, unhappy with herself and the answers she didn’t have. 

“I hope that wasn’t directed at me,” Starscream said as he entered her rooms through their connecting door. “I can still go get that training dummy.”

“I don’t know--,” she rubbed her eyes, “I just...don’t know.” She didn’t know what she wanted. 

“Let me help you,” he said. “Look, I’m being generous. Admire me.”

She managed a small chuckle as he started to pull pins out of her hair. It took ten pins before the whole coil dropped down her back, and he hummed as he picked at the leather holding the braid together. “I like it longer,” he murmured to her as he undid the braid and combed his fingers through her hair. 

“Are you just going to admire the view or…?”

“It’s been a while, and I didn’t get to enjoy it as much as I wanted to,” he said before placing small, close-mouthed kisses on her neck. She tilted her chin to give him better access, and she gasped a little when he nipped the skin over her pulse.

The thin silk robe she wore slipped off her shoulders to puddle on the floor. She wore a shorter silk shift underneath, but his hands stayed on her shoulders as he ducked his head to kiss her. She lifted her chin to meet him, and he kissed her lightly. 

A mischievous impulse made her nip his bottom lip. It was light and playful, and he growled at her. Pressed to her like he was, she could feel him growling, and it just made her smile at him. He wrapped his hand in her hair and used it to tug her head back and expose her neck. 

She gasped when he bit the curve of where her neck met her shoulder. He liked the sound, so he bit her a little harder. “That’s going to leave a--mark,” she managed.

“Good.”

She could feel his cord against her thigh. He liked the challenge, and she wanted the play. She still felt restless, but for the first time in days she could _do_ something about it. She reached down and palmed his cord, and when he jerked in surprise, it gave her a better grip. She squeezed and released his cord, and she could hear his incoherence. “Pants off,” she told him, and it took less than five seconds for his pants to join her robe on the floor.

They mutually decided that continuing to play while standing wasn’t going to work, and when they moved to the bed, she was surprised that he let her get on the bed after him. He spread his legs as she crawled toward him, and she leaned forward to kiss him again. He cradled her face in his hands, and when she pulled back to catch her breath, he gave her a look she didn’t know how to interpret.

She distracted herself by reaching out and taking his cord in hand again. He watched her with that intense look on his face as she gripped him and ran her hold up and down his cord. He was fully hard in her hold, and she couldn’t look at him anymore. It was too much.

She lowered herself down until she could kiss the very tip of his cord. He exhaled as she took him into her mouth, and she closed her eyes as she sucked the tip gently. He ran his hand into her hair and gripped her, not hard, but it was there.

She leaned into his hold as she moved her hands up and down the shaft of his cord. She knew how to bring him up and over, if he let her, and as she moved, she didn’t have to look at him. 

He pulled her off him as his hips jerked and his cord spilled over her hand. She needed a towel or a handkerchief, but before she could find one, he climbed off the bed, and as he went into her bathroom, he pulled his shirt off.

When he came back, he had a damp towel and he cleaned her hand off while keeping his eyes on her. “Stop looking at me like that,” she whispered.

“What would you like me to do instead?” he asked, and when she spread her legs, he grinned.

He moved up between her legs, but she wasn’t running hot, not yet. He kissed the inside of her thigh, under her knee, and on top of her knee. She giggled and nearly kicked him off, and that was better. She was engaged with what he was doing. 

He settled between her legs and marked her thighs with open kisses, and he made sure to mark her up. “Why do you feel the need to mark me?” Windblade asked in a high, tight voice. She was trembling, and Starscream looked up at her with a smirk. 

The temperature spiked at his look, and he knew she was almost ready. “I like you having something to remember me by,” he said, and before she could snark back at him, he kissed her quim. She was dripping wet and he nearly scalded his tongue, but he ignored it in favor of kissing her.

She fell back on the pillows. When her hips started to rise, he pinned them down with one arm as he lavished attention on her quim. His thumb fit neatly into the small divot of a scar where her cord would have been. She moaned when he licked at her hot core, and he hummed into her skin.

Her hand reached around to grasp his hair. When she tugged on it, he groaned and her hips jerked under his arm. “Please,” she begged breathlessly, “ _please._ ”

If his mouth wasn’t so busy, he might have said, “Well, since you ask so nicely.”

He repositioned his mouth and kissed her quim as deeply as he could. He swept his tongue over the entrance to her quim before darting it inside with small, light touches designed to frustrate her. Her grip on his hair tightened to almost the point of pain, and he warbled with pleasure. Between his touches and the vibrations from his verbal responses, her thighs clamped around his head as she rode out her orgasm. 

When he regained his hearing after she left him go, he looked up at her and realized she was crying. He took a moment to wipe his mouth before he climbed up next to her. “Why are you crying?”

“Emotional re-release,” she hiccuped. He chuckled and drew her close to him, and she nestled her face against his neck. He held her as she cried softly, but she wasn’t sobbing, so he believed her. He needed a moment to catch his breath in any case; he was pretty sure the heat of her quim had seared his lips and tongue. Not that he minded. It was worth the pain.

She calmed in a few minutes, and he stroked her hair. “Better?”

She nodded and tucked her face against his neck. “You?”

“Better now,” he conceded. “I’ve missed this.”

“Hm?” she murmured. “Really?”

“Yes,” he said as he kissed her temple. Sex--proper sex--always made him silly and affectionate. “You’re lovely.”

She made a noise of protest and didn’t look at him. The golden feeling that made him feel bright and playful when he looked at her spread through his chest and almost made him grin like a youngling. He hid his face in her hair, where she couldn’t see how silly he was. 

He yawned, and she reached up to pat his cheek. “Sleepy time,” she mumbled.

He drew her down to bed. “Sleepy time,” he agreed.

\--

Windblade dipped her toes in the water of the spring in the unfinished courtyard. She had left Starscream sleeping upstairs, but she was unable to drift off the way he had. The earlier rain had gone, leaving a sky full of stars above her, but the dirt she sat on was still damp. She had expected that and worn dark, heavy cotton to come commune with Metroplex.

The spring wasn’t as close to the center of Metroplex as the underground spring was, so he couldn’t communicate through lights with her, but she felt the water around her toes heat up until it was comfortable, not cold. 

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “that I haven’t been around. I’ve been busy, but that’s no excuse.”

The water bubbled, and she smiled instinctively. “Your people are going to survive the winter and what comes after,” she told Metroplex as she dragged her fingertips through the water. “I just don’t know if they need _me_ for that.” The thought of leaving Metroplex caused a real wrench to the bottom of her soul. They were connected in ways she had never connected with Caminus. 

She sighed and leaned back on her hands. “I need something to stay for.”

Metroplex didn’t answer, and she knew why. Her decision to stay had to be a choice she made outside of any influences or requests made on her time. In a way, she was navigating without a compass. She could make work for herself, and the city would even be grateful for it, but it was from a sense of obligation. How could she find a way to fall in love with where she lived, to find something that made her want to get out of bed in the morning and go straight to work on?

She had thought she had left this malaise behind her in February, when the world had looked so dark, but the darkness had come back, and she didn’t know what would stand against it. A kitten to look after wasn’t what she needed.

So what, by Solus, did she need?

She didn’t have an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end--for the moment. More is incoming. I'll post the further reading/bibliography tomorrow or the day after.
> 
> My [writing tumblr](http://www.inkfic.tumblr.com) is a great place to get into contact with me, and I take prompts there. Since I do work full time, I can't guarantee I'll answer them quickly, but I do take them and answer questions there.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the list of further readings and sources that influenced this work. A lot of what's on this list, I read while working on this. Some of the things that happened in the books have definitely influenced things that have happened or _will_ happen.
> 
> That's right, there's more to come.

This list is by no means exhaustive, but I have separated it into specific categories for ease of consumption. Some of the below items contain things that I borrowed (such as the concept of fire magic from _The Enchanted Forest Chronicles_ and the medieval surgical techniques from the _Mistress of the Art of Death_ novels), while the rest are things that inspired me. All of the following I would recommend, but some possess specific triggers.

  **BOOKS**

The Mistress of the Art of Death novels by Ariana Franklin: These books influenced a great deal of the medical culture of Caminus, and I borrowed the titles of lady doctors from 12th century Sicily to name similar characters.

  * __Mistress of the Art of Death__ (warnings: graphic child murder/pedophilia)  

  * _The Serpent’s Tale_ (warnings: sexual assault/dishonor to the dead)  
  

  * _Grave Goods_ (warnings: burial alive/suicide/violent murder/mentions of rape and attempted rape)  

  * _A Murderous Procession_ (warnings: burnings/period-typical xenophobia and misogyny)



_Siege Winter_ by Ariana Franklin (warnings: mentions of rape of a child/violence). It's set during the worst of the Anarchy in England.  
_  
__Duchess of Aquitaine_ by Margaret Ball (warnings: misogyny, discussions of rape/sexual assault, violence). I took a lot of influence of what the Cybertronian civil war was from the Anarchy, and the vibrancy and defiance of Eleanor was really interesting in that context.  __  
  
The Enchanted Forest Chronicles by Patricia C Wrede, but most particularly:

  * __Calling on Dragons  
  
__
  * _Talking to Dragons_ (for fire magic)



_The Romanovs: 1613-1918_ by Simon Sebag Montifore  
_  
__The Romanovs: The Final Chapter_ by Robert K Massie  
_  
__The Coming Plague: Newly Emerging Diseases in a World Out of Balance_ by Laurie Garrett. This book is about the diseases that emerged from the 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s, in particular, the various hemorrhagic fevers like Bolivian hemorrhagic fever, Ebola, and Lassa Fever. The Autobot bleeds are based on Lassa Fever.   
_  
__Bloodhound_ by Tamora Pierce (warnings: animal abuse/police brutality/torture) __  


  * _Trickster’s Choice/Trickster’s Queen_ by Tamora Pierce (warnings: misogyny, racism, child murder, torture)



The Circle of Magic books by Tamora Pierce, particularly: _  
_

  * __Cold Fire_ (warnings: arson)_


  * _The Will of the Empress_ (warnings: misogyny/sexual assault)



_The Mists of Avalon_ by Marion Zimmer Bradley (warnings: violence, rape, incest, murder, misogyny). _  
_

_The Starcross’d Series_ by David Blixt (warnings: violence, rape, war, attempted child murder, poison, torture). This takes place in early Renaissance Italy, long before Italy was a united state (that wouldn't happen until the 1800s), when the city states jockeyed for power  & occasionally did horrible things in war. This is where 'Havoc' comes from.

  * __The Master of Verona__


  * _Voice of the Falconer_


  * _Fortune’s Fool_


  * _The Prince’s Doom_



_Paris_ by Edward Rutherford (warnings: anti semitism, genocide, racism, violence, torture, Nazis). This book tells three different stories at three different times in Parisian history, but it's not told chronologically. It was a delightful read, and I enjoyed the history and the context. It's really the story of the city and how Paris has survived so many different calamities and is still the city of lights.   
  
_The Great Influenza_  by John Barry (warnings: descriptions of illness)

    * In this book, the described filtration system for the water system in the city of Hamburg, Germany, is the direct inspiration for Windblade’s adoption of a filtration system in Carcer and later Iacon.



_We Two_ by Gillian Gill. This book details the relationship between Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, how volatile and tempestuous their relationship could be, and ultimately what their partnership looked like. Full disclosure, I  _do not_ care for Prince Albert, but Victoria's feelings for him were real. I just find their children much more interesting. 

_The Graves Are Walking: The Great Famine & The Saga of the Irish People _ by John Kelly. This book details the events that led up to the Potato Famine of 1845-1853, and places it in context. It isn’t as critical as other titles about the Potato Famine (at times it could be harsher), but it delves deeply into the context and goes into the details of what happened in the Americas when the Irish immigrants fleeing the famine arrived. It has definitely influenced the history of how the Senate dealt with the southern territories. This book is a hard read and it’s very descriptive, but it’s interesting.

**FILM/TELEVISION**

  * The Ghost and the Darkness (warning: gruesome murder by animals)


  * Emma (2009 BBC Miniseries)


  * Princess Diaries 2


  * The Borgias (Showtime) (warnings: murder, poison, torture, rape, war crimes)


  * The Tudors (Showtime) (warnings: murder, illness, torture, burnings, xenophobia)


  * Avatar: The Last Airbender (warnings: violence, child violence, attempted child murder, war, child abuse, genocide, mental illness)


  * Born in China (warnings: animal death)


  * Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade



**PODCASTS**

  * Lore
  * Sawbones:
    * Plague Medicine: <http://www.maximumfun.org/sawbones/sawbones-plague-medicine>
    * Tuberculosis: <http://www.maximumfun.org/sawbones/sawbones-tuberculosis>
    * Cholera: <http://www.maximumfun.org/sawbones/sawbones-cholera>
    * Influenza: <http://www.maximumfun.org/sawbones/sawbones-influenza>
    * Pneumonia: <http://www.maximumfun.org/sawbones/sawbones-pneumonia>
    * Norovirus: <http://www.maximumfun.org/sawbones/sawbones-norovirus>



**MUSIC/MUSICALS**

  * The Scarlet Pimpernel (warnings: mass murder)


  * The Secret Garden (warnings: ghosts/the story opens with a mass death event)


  * The Lion King


  * The Firebird Suite by Igor Stravinsky


  * Ave Maria by Mozart, performed by Barbara Bonney


  * The Hunchback of Notre Dame** (warnings: xenophobia, misogyny, attempted genocide)


    * ** This show never made it to Broadway, but the soundtrack is by the Hunchback of Notre Dame Company.



**MYTHOLOGIES/FAIRY-TALES**

  * King Arthur / The Fisher King
  * Brigid
  * Beauty and the Beast
  * The Descent of Inanna
  * The Abduction of Persephone



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am happy to elucidate more about this, or any of the particular titles on this list if you'd like to ask me at my [writing tumblr.](http://www.inkfic.tumblr.com)


End file.
